GROWITSG  UP 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Xow,  Joe,  drop  Doodles," 
jutchen  stairs."—  Page  108. 


AUI,I  Affy,    "aad  follow  me  up  these 
Growing  C7p, 


GROWING  UP 

A  Story  of  the  Girlhood  of 

JUDITH  MACKENZIE 


By  JENNIE  M.  DRINKWATER 


T  'Each  year  grows  more  sacred 
with  wondering  expectation." 
—Phillips  Brooks. 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY, 
PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK. 


COPYRIGHT,  1894, 

BY  A.  I.  BBADLBY  &  Co. 


PS 
1351 


CONTENTS. 


PAGS. 

I.  THE  HORN  BOOK 5 

II.  SQUAEE  ROOT  AND  OTHER  THINGS  ...  27 

III.  WAS  THIS  THE  END  ? 37 

IV.  BENSALEM 45 

V.  DAILY  BREAD  AND  DAILY  WILL     ...  68 

VI.  THE  BEST  THING  IN  THE  WORLD    ...  66 

VII.  A  SMALL  DISCIPLE 73 

Vin.  THIS  WAY  OR  THAT  WAY  ?     ....  88 

IX.  THE  FLOWERS  THAT  CAME  TO  THE  WELL       .  104 

X.  THE  LAST  APPLE Ill 

XL  How  JEAN  HAD  AN  OUTING      ....  116 

XII.  A  SECRET  ERRAND 127 

XHI.  THE  Two  BLESSED  THINGS      ....  135 

XIV.  AN  AFTERNOON  WITH  AN  ADVENTURE  IN  IT  .  144 

XV.  "  FIRST  AT  ANTIOCH  " 169 

XVI.  AUNT  AFFY'S  EXPERIENCE        ....  168 

XVII.  THE  STORY  OF  A  KEY 185 

XVIII.  JUDITH'S  TURNING  POINT         ....  209 

XIX.  A  MORNING  WITH  A  SURPRISE  IN  IT       .        .  222 

XX.  JUDITH'S  AFTERNOON 235 

XXI.  MARIAN'S  AFTERNOON 256 

XXII.  AUNT  AFFY'S  EVENING      .....  268 

XXHI.  VOICES       .                               .  278 


1644076 


CONTENTS. 


XXIV.  "I  ALWAYS  THOUGHT  You  CARED" 

XXV.  COUSIN  DON 

XXVI.  AUNT  AFFT'S  FAITH  AND  JUDITH'S  FOREIGN 

LETTER        .        . 

XXVII.  His  VERY   BEST 

XXVHI.  A  NEW  ANXIETY     . 

XXIX.  JUDITH'S  FUTURE     . 

XXX.  A  TALK  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT 

XXXI.  ABOUT  WOMEN 

XXXII.  AUNT  AFFY'S  PICTURE    . 

XXXIII.  NETTIE'S  OUTING     . 

XXXIV.  "SENSATIONS" 


9AQ&. 

291 
306 

310 
322 
334 
342 
360 
372 
392 
399 
408 


GROWING   UP. 


THE  HORN  BOOK. 

"  I  remember  the  lessons  of  childhood,  you  see, 

And  the  horn  book  I  learned  on  my  poor  mother's  knee. 

In  truth,  I  suspect  little  else  do  we  learn 

From  this  great  book  of  life,  which  so  shrewdly  we  turn, 

Saving  how  to  apply,  with  a  good  or  bad  grace, 

What  we  learned  in  the  horn  book  of  childhood." 

OWEN  MEREDITH. 

JUDITH'S  mother  sat  in  her  invalid  chair  before 
the  grate ;  she  looked  very  pretty  to  Judith  with 
her  hair  -curling  back  from  her  face,  and  the  color 
of  her  eyes  and  cheeks  brought  out  by  the  becoming 
wrapper;  the  firelight  shone  upon  the  mother; 
the  fading  light  in  the  west  shone  upon  the  girl  in 
the  bay-window,  the  yellow  head,  the  blue  shoulders 
bant  over  the  letter  she  was  writing. 

"  Judith,  come  and  tell  me  pictures." 

$ 


6  GROWING  UP. 

About  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  her  mother's 
weariest-time,  Judith  often  told  her  mother  pictures. 

The  picture-telling  began  when  Judith  was  a 
little  girl;  one  afternoon  she  said:  "Mother,  I'll 
tell  you  a  picture ;  shut  your  eyes." 

It  was  in  this  very  room ;  her  mother  leaned  back 
in  her  wheel-chair,  lifted  her  feet  to  the  fender, 
shut  her  eyes,  and  small  seven-year-old  "  told "  her 
"  picture." 

Telling  pictures  had  been  the  amusement  of  the 
one,  and  the  rest  of  the  other,  many,  many  weary 
times  since. 

As  the  child  grew,  her  pictures  grew. 

"  Yes,  mother,"  said  the  girl  in  the  bay  window, 
"I've  just  finished  my  letter;  I've  written  Aunt 
Affy  the  longest  letter  and  told  her  all  you  said." 

"  Read  it  to  me,  please  ? " 

Standing  near  the  window  to  catch  the  light, 
Judith  read  aloud  the  letter. 

At  times  it  was  quaint  and  unchildish ;  then,  for 
getting  herself,  Judith  had  run  on  with  her  ready 
pen,  and,  with  pretty  phrases,  told  Aunt  Affy  the 
exciting  events  in  her  own  life,  and  the  quiet  story 
of  her  mother's  days. 


TBB  HORN  BOOK.  7 

**We  are  coming  as  soon  as  spring  comes,"  she 
ended,  "mother  is  coming  to  get  strong,  and  I  am 
coming  to  help  you  and  learn  about  your  village. 
Beautiful  Bensalem.  Mother  says  I  am  learning 
the  lessons  taught  out  of  school ;  but  how  I  would 
like  to  go  to  school  with  Jean  Draper  in  your  big, 
queer  school-room."  As  she  turned  towards  her 
mother,  the  firelight  and  the  light  in  her  face  were 
all  the  lights  in  the  room. 

The  home  of  these  two  people  was  in  two  rooms  ; 
one  was  the  kitchen,  the  other  was  bed-room,  school 
room,  parlor.  It  was  a  month  since  her  mother 
had  walked  through  the  two  rooms ;  several  times  a 
day  Judith  pushed  the  wheel-chair  through  the 
rooms.  She  called  these  times  her  mother's  excur 
sions.  Last  winter  her  mother  wiped  dishes,  sewed 
a  little,  and  once  she  made  cake ;  this  winter  she 
had  done  little  besides  teach  Judith.  The  child 
was  such  an  apt  scholar  that  her  mother  said  she 
needed  no  teacher  —  she  always  taught  herself. 

Judith  loved  housekeeping;  she  loved  everything 
she  had  to  do,  she  loved  everything  she  was  growing 
up  to  do ;  her  mother  she  loved  best  of  all 

She  lived  all  day  long  in  a  very  busy  world;  the 
pictures  helped  fill  it, 


8  GROWING   UP. 

"  Now,  mother,  shut  your  eyes,"  she  began,  glee 
fully. 

The  eyes  shut  themselves,  the  restless  hands  held 
themselves  still;  there  would  not  be  many  more 
weary  days,  but  Judith  did  not  know  that. 

Judith  waited  a  moment  until  she  could  think. 

"  Mother,  how  do  pictures  come  ? " 

"  Bring  me  that  paper  Don  brought  last  night;  I 
saw  something  to  show  you,  then  forgot  it." 

Her  mother  turned  the  leaves  of  the  paper  and 
indicated  the  paragraph  with  her  finger.  Judith 
read  it  aloud:  — 

"Some  years  ago  I  chanced  to  meet  Sir  Noel 
Paton  on  the  shores  of  a  beautiful  Scottish  loch,  all 
alone,  with  an  open  Bible  in  his  hand.  He  put  his 
finger  between  his  pages,  as  he  rose  to  greet  me,  and 
still  kept  it  there  as  we  talked.  Supposing  he  might 
be  devoting  a  quiet  hour  to  devotional  reading  in 
the  secluded  spot,  I  made  no  remark  on  the  nature 
of  his  studies ;  but  after  a  few  minutes  he  observed, 
with  a  glance  downwards,  '  You  see,  I  am  getting  a 
new  picture.'  He  then  proceeded  to  explain  that  it 
was  his  habit,  before  settling  down  to  his  winter's 
work,  to  walk  about  in  the  neighborhood  of  his 


THE  HORN  BOOK.  9 

summer  residence,  wherever  that  might  be,  with  his 
Bible  in  his  hand,  seeking  for  an  inspiration.  Some 
times  the  inspiration  came  almost  immediately;  at 
others,  he  was  weeks  before  he  could  please  himself. 
The  following  spring  appeared  '  The  Good  Shepherd/ 
one  of  the  finest  of  his  works." 

Her  mother  made  no  remark;  she  often  waited 
for  Judith's  thought. 

"  I  think  Aunt  Affy  sees  things  through  the  Bible, 
mother,"  said  Judith,  speaking  her  first  thought 

"I  know  she  does." 

"  I  see  a  face,"  began  the  picture-teller,  dropping 
down  on  the  rug,  and  resting  her  head  against  the 
padded  arm  of  the  chair. 

"You  love  faces,"  was  the  quick  response. 

"And  voices,  and  hands,  and  hair.  This  face  I 
see  is  a  good  face  —  but,  then,  I  do  not  often  see 
ugly  faces  —  the  eyes  tell  the  truth,  the  lips  tell  the 
truth;  perhaps  it  isn't  a  handsome  face;  the  fore- 
iiead  is  low,  rather  square,  the  eye-brows  dark  and 
heavy ;  the  eyes  underneath  are  a  kind  of  grayish 
blue,  riot  Hue  blue,  like  mine,  and  they  are  looking 
at  me  very  seriously ;  the  nose  is  quite  a  large  nose, 
and  the  mouth  large,  too,  with  such  splendid  teeth; 


10  GROWING   UP. 

the  upper  lip  is  smooth,  and  the  cheeks  and  chin  all 
shaven;  the  hair  is  blackest  black;  now  the  eyes 
smile,  and  it  looks  like  another  face ;  I  do  not  know 
which  face  I  like  better.  What  is  the  name  of  my 
picture?" 

"Strong  and  true." 

"That  is  a  good  name,"  said  the  picture-teller, 
satisfied, "  and  who  is  it  ? " 

"  Our  dear  Cousin  Don,"  was  the  reply  with  loving 
intonation. 

"You  always  guess." 

"Because  your  pictures  are  so  true.  I  like  to 
look  at  people  and  places  through  your  eyes." 

Judith  smiled,  and  looking  a  moment  into  the 
fire,  began  again  :  "  A  fence,  an  old  fence,  and  a  ter 
race,  not  green,  but  rather  dried  up,  then  a  lawn, 
with  a  horse-chestnut,  a  big,  big  horse-chestnut  tree 
on  each  side  the  brick  path,  and  then  up  three  steps 
to  a  long  piazza :  the  house  is  painted  white,  with 
white  shutters  instead  of  blinds,  and  there  are  three 
dormer  windows  in  the  roof;  these  windows  make 
the  third  story.  I  wish  I  could  see  inside,  but  I 
never  did.  Perhaps  I  shall  some  day.  '  Some  day* 
is  my  fairyland,  and  may  you  be  there  to  see.  That 


THE  HORN  BOOK.  11 

day  Cousin  Don  came  to  take  me  walking  he  took 
me  past  the  place ;  he  said  some  day  when  you  could 
spare  me  longer  he  would  take  me  in,  he  wanted  me 
to  see  the  brown  girl  who  lives  there;  but  there 
she  stood  on  the  piazza,  the  door  was  open  and  she 
was  going  in;  she  was  a  brown  girl,  all  in  brown 
with  a  brown  hat  and  brown  feathor ;  a  brown  face 
too  — I  love  browns ;  she  happened  to  turn  and  she 
tossed  a  laugh  down  to  Cousin  Don.  It  was  a  pretty 
laugh,  with  something  in  it  I  didn't  understand ;  it 
was  a  laugh  —  that  —  didn't  —  tell  —  everything. 
I  told  Don  so.  He  said :  '  Nonsense  !'  I  don't  know 
what  he  meant." 

"  That  was  Marian  Kenney,  and  the  old  house  on 
Summer  Avenue,"  guessed  Judith's  mother,  who 
knew  the  story  of  the  brown  girl  from  Don's  en 
thusiastic  recitals. 

Her  mother's  voice  was  more  rested ;  Judith  pon 
dered  again. 

"  That  was  a  city  picture ;  this  is  a  country  pic 
ture.  It  is  the  beautiful,  beautiful  country,  even  if 
the  grass  is  dead,  and  the  trees  bare;  it  is  the 
February  country  in  New  Jersey ;  there  are  clouds, 
and  clouds,  aud  clouds  overhead;  and  a*  brook  with 


12  GROWING  UP. 

the  sun  shining  on  it,  and  a  bridge  with  a  stone  waH 
on  each  side,  a  little  bit  of  a  stone  wall,  and  stone 
arches  where  the  water  flows  through;  perhaps  it 
rushes  because  the  snow  is  melting  so  fast ;  there's 
a  garden  with  no  flowers  in  °t  yet,  but  there  are 
flower  stalks,  and  bushes,  and  bushes;  and  a  path 
up  to  the  kitchen  door,  for  the  garden  is  down  in  a 
hollow ;  the  kitchen  shines,  it  is  so  clean,  and  smells, 
oh,  how  it  does  smell  of  graham  bread,  and  hot  mo 
lasses  cake,  and  cup  custards,  and  apple  pie — but 
we  can't  smell  in  a  picture,"  she  laughed. 

"  I  can — in  your  pictures,"  said  her  mother,  echo 
ing  the  laugh  very  softly. 

"  And  the  dearest  old  sitting-room  —  Aunt  Rody 
will  call  it '  the  room '  as  if  it  were  the  only  room  in 
the  house ;  there's  a  rag  carpet  on  the  floor  —  Aunt 
Eody  dotes  on  rag  carpets ;  so  would  I  if  it  were  not 
for  the  endless  sewing  of  the  rags — and  there's  a  chair 
with  rockers,  and  on  the  top  of  the  back  of  it  a 
gilded  house  and  trees  almost  rubbed  off,  and  on  the 
back  a  calico  cushion  tied  on  with  red  dress  braid, 
and  a  calico  cushion  in  the  bottom,  and  the  dearest 
old  lady  sils  in  it  and  sews,  and  talks,  and  reads  the 
i'iil'i-3  and  the  magazines;  there's  a  chair  without 


THE  HORN  BOOK.  13 

rockers  for  the  old  lady  who  never  rocks  or  does  easy 
pleasant  things,  and  hates  it  when  other  people,  es 
pecially  little  girls,  do  any  easy  pleasant  thing;  and 
there's  another  chair,  like  an  office  chair,  with  a  leather 
cushion  for  the  dear  old  man  with  a  rosy  face  like 
a  rosy  apple,  and  a  bald  head  on  the  top,  and  long 
white  whiskers  that  he  keeps  so  nice  they  shine  like 
silver,  and  make  you  never  mind  when  he  wants  to 
kiss  you;  and  there's  a  high  mantel  with  a  whole 
world  of  curious  things  on  it  that  came  out  of  a  hun 
dred  years  ago,  and  a  lounge  with  a  shaggy  dog  on 
a  cushion  on  one  end  of  it  —  how  Aunt  Eody  lets 
him  is  a  wonder  to  me  —  and  a  round  table  with 
piles  of  the  'New  York  Observer'  on  it.  And  just 
now  the  sweetest  lady  in  the  world  in  her  wine- 
colored  wrapper  is  lying  on  the  lounge  and  the  little 
girl  in  blue  is  flying  about  helping  Aunt  Affy  and 
Aunt  Eody  get  supper  —  0,  mother,"  with  a  break 
in  her  voice,  "  how  I  ache  to  get  you  there  and  take 
care  of  you  there ;  Cousin  Don  says  it  is  the  best 
place  in  the  world  for  you  and  me, —  we  would  grow 
fresh  and  green  and  send  out  oxygen  like  all  the 
green  things  in  Bensalem.  I  think  I'd  like  to  grow 
green  and  send  out  oxygen.'* 


14  GROWING  UP. 

"  Judith,  you  and  I  are  always  in  the  best  place 
—  for  us." 

"  Then,"  said  Judith,  laughing,  "  I'd  like  a  place 
not  quite  so  good  for  us  —  only  just  as  good  as  Ben- 
salem." 

"When  I  was  a  little  girl, thirty  years  ago,  the 
room  was  just  the  same,  only  Doodles  was  another 
Doodles,  and  Aunt  Affy's  curls  were  not  grey,  and 
Uncle  Cephas  was  not  hald  or  white  — his  whiskers 
were  red  then,  and  he  was  there  off  and  on  —  and 
the  other  aunties  came  and  went — and  Aunt  Becky 
died  —  the  friskiest  Aunt  Becky  that  ever  lived.  I 
want  my  little  girl  to  grow  up  in  the  dear  old  house, 
with  not  a  stain  of  the  world  upon  her ;  I  want  to 
think  of  my  little  girl  there  with  Uncle  Cephas  and 
Aunt  Affy." 

Judith  understood ;  her  mother  had  told  her  she 
would  be  there  without  her  mother ;  but  that  was 
to  be  years  hence  —  sorrow  was  a  long,  long  way  off 
to-night  to  the  girl  who  must  hope  or  her  heart 
would  break;  she  brought  her  mother's  fingers  to 
her  lips  and  kissed  them;  she  did  not  worry  he? 
mother  now-a-days  even  by  kissing  her  lips  or  hair. 

Cousin  Don  said  to  her  that  afternoon  he  took 


THE  HORN  BOOK.  15 

her  to  walk  that  she  must  not  hang  over  her  mother, 
or  kiss  the  life  out  of  her,  and  above  all,  never  cry 
or  moan  when  she  talked  about  leaving  her  "  alone." 
"  Nothing  makes  her  so  strong  as  to  see  you  brave," 
he  said,  watching  the  effect  of  his  caution  upon  her 
listening  face. 

She  had  tried  to  be  brave  ever  since. 

"You  can  make  pictures  and  see  me  there, 
mother,"  she  said  brightly,  with  a  catch  in  her 
breath. 

"  I  do  — when  I  lie  awake  in  the  night,  and  give 
thanks." 

"  Tell  me  over  again  about  when  you  were  a  little 
girl,  there,"  she  coaxed. 

Over  and  over  again  she  had  listened  to  the  ever- 
new  story  of  her  mother's  childhood  and  youth  in 
Bensalem ;  Aunt  Body  was  the  dragon,  Aunt  Affy 
the  angel,  Uncle  Cephas  a  helper  in  every  difficulty, 
and  all  the  village  a  world  where  something  strange 
and  fascinating  was  always  happening. 

"It  was  a  very  happy  home  for  me  when  my 
father  died  and  my  mother  took  me  there ;  she  died 
before  I  was  twelve ;  and  then  twelve  years  I  was 
Aunt  Affy*s  girl;  then  your  father  took  me  away," 


16  GROWING  UP. 

her  mother  said  with  the  memory  oi  the  years  in 
her  voice  and  eyes. 

*  I  wonder  if  somebody  will  come  and  take  me 
away,  or  whether  I  shall  stay  forever  and  ever  like 
Aunt  Affy  and  Aunt  Body,"  Judith  wondered  in  her 
expectant  voice. 

"  If  somebody  comes  —  if  our  Father  in  Heaven 
sends  somebody  as  good  and  gentle  and  wise  as  your 
own  father,  I  shall  be  glad  of  it  up  in  Heaven,  I 
think.  You  do  not  remember  your  father;  in  his 
picture  he  is  like  Don  —  Don  is  your  father's 
brother's  son ;  your  fathers  were  much  alike.  Your 
father  was  only  a  clerk,  his  salary  was  never  large  ; 
Don's  father  was  a  business  man,  he  died  rich  and 
left  his  only  son  a  fortune ;  but  your  father  and  I 
never  longed  for  money  —  Don  has  always  given 
me  money  as  his  father  did ;  he  said  you  and  I  had 
a  right  to  it.  It  has  never  been  hard  to  take  money 
from  Don — he  will  be  always  kind  to  you;  he 
thinks  he  has  a  right  to  you ;  you  are  the  only 
children  of  the  two  brothers ;  they  were  only  two 
—  they  never  had  a  sister.  Now  you  know  all 
about  your  ancestry  on  both  sides,  I  think;  your 
grandfather  and  grandmother  Mackenzie  were  born 


THE  HORN  BOOK.  17 

in  Scotland ;  they  died  before  you  were  born.  Aunt 
Affy  will  be  always  telling  you  about  the  'Sparrow 
girls.'  My  mother  was  a  Sparrow  girl.  Just  a 
year  ago  we  were  in  that  dear  old  home." 

"  I  was  twelve  then  —  I  had  my  birthday  there ; 
perhaps  I  shall  have  another  birthday  there  in  ApriL 
Aunt  Affy  wants  us  to  come  so  much.  I  can  take 
better  care  of  you  now  because  I  am  older  and  I 
must  not  have  lessons  to  make  you  tired ;  we  will 
have  a  long  vacation ;  I  will  only  write  poems  for 
you  and  you  needn't  even  take  the  trouble  to  make 
the  measure  right.  Aunt  Rody  said  I  was  a  silly 
baby  to  be  always  hanging  about  you;  but  she  will 
see  how  I  have  grown  up.  Don  says  I  am  a  little 
woman.  Now  I'll  tell  you  a  picture.  Shut  your 
eyes,  again." 

The  tear-blinded  eyes  were  shut  again;  Judith 
had  been  looking  into  the  fire  as  she  talked;  she 
was  afraid  to  look  up  into  her  mother's  eyes.  It 
was  being  brave  to  look  into  the  fire. 

"  I  see  a  room  up-stairs,  a  room  with  a  slanting 
roof  and  only  one  window ;  the  window  looks  down 
into  the  garden ;  it  has  a  green  paper  shade  tied  up 
with  a  cord;  there  is  a  strip  of  rag-carpet  before 


18  GROWING  UP. 

the  bed,  that  is  all  the  carpet  there  is ;  and  there's 
a  funny  old  wash-stand  with  a  blue  bowl  sunk 
down  into  a  hole  on  the  top,  and  a  towel  on  the 
rail  of  the  wash-stand  with  a  red  border — in  winter 
a  pipe  conies  up  in  the  stove-pipe  hole  from  the 
big  stove  in  the  sitting-room,  but  there's  ice  in  the 
pitcher  very  often ;  there's  a  bureau  with  a  cracked 
looking-glass  on  the  top,  an  old  bureau,  everything 
is  old  but  the  little  girl  kneeling  on  the  rag-carpet 
rug  beside  the  bed,  with  her  head  on  the  red  and 
white  quilt,  saying  her  prayers.  That  little  girl  is 
you,  mother,  a  sweet,  obedient  little  girl,  that  hasn't 
a  will  of  her  own,  and  tempers,  and  tantrums  like 
me." 

"  I  like  to  think  that  sweet  little  girl  is  you." 

"Then  it  is  me;  I've  grown  sweet  in  a  hurry," 
Judith  laughed,  "and  left  all  my  tempers  and  tan 
trums  far  behind." 

"There's  another  T  to  go  with  them  —  tempta 
tions  —  through  which  you  grow  strong." 

Not  seeming  to  heed,  but  in  reality  holding  her 
mother's  thought  in  her  heart  Judith  ran  merrily 
on :  "And  I  see  a  church,  with  a  little  green  in  front,, 
and  posts  to  hitch  the  horses,  the  two  church  doors 


THE  HORN  BOOK.  19 

are  wide  open,  for  in  the  picture  it  is  Sunday  morn 
ing  ;  Aunt  Eody  is  in  the  head  of  a  pew  in  the  body 
of  the  church,  and  Aunt  Affy  sits  next,  and  Uncle 
Cephas  is  next  the  door,  and  there's  a  girl  between 
Aunt  Affy  and  Uncle  Cephas,  a  girl  fifteen  years  old 
and  her  hair  is  braided,  not  in  long,  babyish 
curls  —  " 

"  Oh,  my  little  girl,  wear  your  curls  as  long  as  you 
can,  because  mother  loves  them,"  her  mother  urged, 
bending  forward  to  touch  the  soft,  bright  hair. 

"  Then  her  hair  is  curled,  and  she  is  trying  to  be 
good  and  listen.  Perhaps  she  likes  sermons — she 
looks  so-  in  the  picture  the  sermon  is  like  the 
Bible  stories  you  tell  me  when  we  read  together — 
I  wish  ministers  told  Bible  stories.  And  there's  the 
sweetest  singing;  it  is  like  Marian  Kenney's  sing 
ing  ;  she  sings  like  a  bird,  Don  says ;  there  are  girls 
and  boys  all  over  the  church,  for  the  minister  in  the 
picture  knows  how  to  tell  Bible  stories  to  boys  and 
girls  and  make  them  as  real  as  the  people  and 
things  in  Summer  Avenue  and  Bensalem;  just  as 
naughty  and  just  as  good.  Jean  Draper  is  there  — 
in  the  pew  behind  me.  Why,  mother,"  bringing 
herself  back  to  the  present  and  turning  to  look  into 


20  GROWING  UP. 

her  mother's  face,  *  Jean  Draper  was  never  in  the 
steam  cars,  or  on  a  ferry-boat  in  all  her  life  —  she 
has  never  been  in  New  York  or  any  where,  only  to 
Dunellen,  v/hich  they  call  'town,'  and  she  walks 
there,  or  rides  with  her  father.  She  wants  to  go 
somewhere  as  much  as  I  want  to  go  to  boarding- 
school.  It's  the  dream  of  her  life,  as  boarding-school 
is  my  dream." 

"  Aunt  Afl'y  and  Cousin  Don  will  decide  about 
boarding-school.  Cousin  Don  and  I  have  talked 
about  it,  and  I  will  tell  Aunt  Affy  what  I  think 
about  it,"  her  mother  decided  with  an  unusual  touch 
of  firmness. 

"  But  I  wouldn't  leave  you,  mother,  for  all  the 
boarding-schools  in  the  world." 

"  And  I  wouldn't  let  you  for  all  the  schools  in  the 
world." 

"  Well,  it's  only  a  dream,  like  Jean  Draper's  out 
ing.  You  like  pictures  better  than  dreams.  I  think 
Don's  friend,  Roger  Kenney,  is  the  minister  in  the  pul 
pit  ;  Don  said  he  had  preached  there  almost  all  win 
ter,  coming  home  every  Tuesday  —  Monday  he  visits 
the  people.  Don  is  sure  Bensalem  will  give  him  a 
call  Uncle  Cephas  likes  him  so  much,  and  Uncle 


THE  HORN  BOOK.  21 

Cephas  is  an  elder.  Now,  here's  another  picture: 
on  the  same  side  of  the  street  as  the  church,  with 
only  the  church-yard  and  the  locust  grove  between, 
it  is  the  dear,  dainty  Queen  Anne  parsonage  —  only 
two  years  old,  and  so  new  and  pretty ;  Jean  Draper 
went  with  me  through  it  —  there  was  nobody  there 
then  —  and  nobody  has  lived  there  all  this  year; 
there's  a  furnace  in  the  cellar  like  a  city  house,  and 
a  bay-window  in  the  study,  and  a  pretty  hall 
with  stained-glass  windows,  and  a  cunning  kitchen, 
a  cunning  sitting-room,  and  sliding  doors  into  the 
parlor,  and  a  piazza  in  the  front,  and  at  the  side  — 
and  out  every  window  is  the  beautiful  country.  I 
hope  I  may  go  again.  Mother,  you  like  this  pic 
ture  ? "  she  asked  earnestly.  "  that  house  is  another 
dream  of  mine.  0,  mother,"  with  a  comical  little 
cry,  "I'm  so  full  of  dreams,  I'm  full  to  bursting." 

"I  like  that  picture.  I  like  to  think  of  Don's 
friend  there  living  a  strong  life ;  he  has  no  worldly 
ambition.  Don  says  it  has  been  wholly  rooted  out 
of  him.  He  was  very  fine  in  college,  working  be 
yond  his  strength  —  eaten  up  with  ambition.  Then 
he  had  an  experience  ;  Don  said  the  fountains  of  the 
great  deep  were  broken  up  in  him,  and  he  came  out 


22  GROWING  UP. 

of  it  another  man  —  as  humble  and  teachable  as 
any  child.  Don  is  afraid  he  will  go  there  and  be 
satisfied  to  stay." 

"Now,  here's  another  face,"  said  Judith,  with  a 
new  reverence  for  Don's  friend :  "  brown  eyes,  and  a 
brown  curly  beard,  and  a  brown  head,  with  laughing 
eyes,  unless  he  is  talking  about  grave  things — he 
doesn't  make  you  afraid  to  be  good,  but  to  love  to. 
Still,  I  am  so  afraid  he  will  talk  to  me  some  day  and 
ask  me  questions;  I  don't  know  how  to  answer 
questions.  Now,  you  know,  I  mean  Don's  friend, 
Mr.  Kenney." 

"  Your  pictures  are  very  cheery.  I  hope  you  may 
tell  some  to  poor  old  Aunt  Rody." 

"  I  shall  never  dare.  She  snaps  at  me.  She  shuts 
me  up  and  makes  me  forget  what  I  want  to  say. 
Her  eyes  go  through  me.  I  don't  love  Aunt  Rody ; 
I  don't  want  to  love  Aunt  Rody.  She  doesn't  like 
baby  girls,"  contended  Judith,  shaking  her  yellow 
head.  "  She  doesn't  like  me  and  Doodles.  We  are 
shaggy  and  a  nuisance." 

"  You  will  not  always  stay  a  baby  girl." 

"  No ;  I  want  to  grow  up  faster ;  I  wish  I  might 
braid  my  hair.  I  want  to  write  books  and  paint 


THE  HORN  BOOK.  23 

real  pictures  on  canvas  to  earn  money  to  take  you 
to  Switzerland.  I'm  sure  you  would  get  well  in 
Switzerland.  I  see  the  pictures  I  would  paint,  and 
I  think  the  books;  but  I  am  so  slow  about  it. 
Sweeping,  and  washing  dishes,  and  doing  errands, 
do  not  help  at  all,"  she  said  with  a  laugh  that  had 
no  discouragement  in  it. 

"  They  all  help.  Every  obedient  thing  helps. 
You  must  grow  up  to  your  book  and  your  picture ; 
living  a  sweet,  joyous,  truthful,  obedient  life  is  grow 
ing  up  to  it.  The  best  books  and  the  best  pictures 
are  the  expression  of  the  truest  and  sweetest  life ; 
the  strongest  and  wisest  life;  am  I  talking  over 
your  head,  dear? 

"  No,"  laughed  Judith,  "  down  into  my  heart." 
"  My  little  girl  has  been  her  mother's  companion 
all  these  years ;  I  fear  I  sometimes  forget  that  you 
are  only  a  little  girl.  But  if  you  have  grown  old, 
you  will  grow  young.  I  wish  I  could  find  a  girl 
friend  for  you.  But  God  knows  all  the  girls  in  the 
world,  and  he  will  find  one  for  you.  If  my  daughter 
remembers  all  her  life  but  one  truth  her  mother 
ever  said  to  her,  I  hope  it  may  be  this :  The  true 
life  is  the  life  hid  with  Christ ;  no  other  life  is  life, 


24  GROWING  UP. 

it  is  playing  at  life ;  this  life  is  safe,  still,  hidden 
away,  growing  stronger  every  day;  the  expression 
of  it,  the  making  it  speak  he  will  take  care  of  every 
hour  of  the  day.  You  cannot  understand  this  now 
— my  words  tell  you  so  little,  but  they  will  come 
back  to  you." 

"I  will  write  it  down,"  promised  Judith,  who 
loved  to  write  things  down,  "  and  date  it  February 
fifteenth.  Told  in  the  Firelight.  I  know  what  it 
means  better  than  I  can  say  it.  I  often  know  what 
things  mean,  but  I  cannot  say  it." 

"Any  more  pictures?"  suggested  her  mother,  in  a 
voice  as  bright  as  Judith's  own. 

"An  old  face  with  pink  cheeks  and  a  long  grey 
curl  behind  each  ear,  the  softest  step  and  the  kindest 
voice  —  but  I  always  forget  and  put  sounds  in  my 
pictures.  Those  sounds  are  always  in  my  picture  of 
AuntAffy." 

"  You  have  not  made  a  picture  of  Aunt  Rody." 

"  I  don't  like  to  tell  a  picture  of  Aunt  Rody.  She 
is  so  old,  so  old — and  she  isn't  happy  —  and  I  don't 
believe  she's  good.  If  it  were  not  for  Aunt  Rody  I 
should  think  all  old  people  were  good;  that  all  you 
had  to  do  to  be  good  was  to  grow  up  and  grow  old." 


THE  HORN  BOOK.  25 

'*  She  is  not  happy.  Once,  years  and  years  ago, 
so  long  ago  that  almost  everybody  has  forgotten, 
she  had  a  bitter  disappointment." 

"What  was  it  about,  mother?"  asked  the  girl, 
who  always  wove  a  love-story  into  the  stories  she 
planned  as  she  stepped  about  the  kitchen,  or  darned 
and  mended  the  household  wear. 

"  She  was  ready  to  be  married  —  she  learned  that 
the  man  she  loved  —  and  Aunt  Rody  could  love  in 
those  days  —  was  a  very,  very  bad  man ;  he  deceived 
her;  it  did  not  break  her  heart,  or  soften  it;  it 
made  it  hard.  Unless  we  forgive,  our  hearts  grow 
hard ;  she  could  not  forgive ;  she  has  said  that  she 
does  not  know  how  to  forgive.  Only  in  forgiving 
do  our  hearts  grow  like  God's  heart.  He  is  always 
forgiving." 

"  I  forgave  somebody  once,"  remembered  Judith ; 
''mother,"  with  a  start, "  I  do  not  always  forgive  Aunt 
Rody  when  she  is  ugly  to  me ;  if  I  do  not  will  I 
have  a  hard  heart  ? " 

"Yes.  That  spot  toward  Aunt  Rody  will  grow 
harder  and  harder.  You  cannot  love  God  with  the 
part  of  your  heart  that  does  not  forgive." 

"Oh,  deary  me"  groaned   Judith,  springing   up. 


26  GROWING  UP. 

"  Will  you  like  milk-toast  to-night  ?  And  prunei  ? 
Don  says  I  know  how  to  cook  prunes." 

"  Perhaps  he  will  come  to  supper." 

"  Then  he  must  have  a  chop.  Mother,  I  like  to 
keep  house.  It's  easy.  It's  easier  than  forgiving," 
she  said,  with  her  merry  little  laugh,  and  a  deep- 
down  heartache. 


SQUARE  BOOT  AND  OTHER  THINGS.        2T 


n. 

SQUARE  ROOT  AND  OTHER  THINGS. 

"  Let  never  day  or  night  unhallowed  pass; 
But  still  remember  what  the  Lord  hath  done." 

SHAKESPEABE. 

"  JUDITH,  would  you  like  to  go  up  to  Lottie's  room 
for  an  hour  ? " 

Judith's  mother  was  still  sitting  before  the  grate 
with  her  feet  lifted  to  the  fender ;  the  tall  figure  of 
Donald  Mackenzie  stood  behind  the  wheel  chair, 
bending,  with  his  folded  arms  upon  the  back  of  the 
chair. 

"  Yes,  mother,"  replied  the  voice  from  the  kitchen, 
a  busy,  pre-occupied  voice. 

Don  had  wiped  the  dishes  for  her,  brought  up 
coal,  taken  down  ashes,  and  declared  that  his  three 
chops  were  the  finest  he  had  ever  eaten. 

"  Lottie  and  her  books  just  went  up,"  said  Judith 
standing  in  the  door-way,  and  untying  her  kitchen 
apron.  a  Don,  will  you  call  me  when  you  go  ?  " 


28  GROWING   UP. 

"  Yes,  Bluebird ;  I  can  stay  but  an  hour  ;  I  have 
to  call  for  Miss  Marian ;  she  has  gone  to  a  King's 
Daughters'  meeting,  and  I  told  her  I  would  stop  on 
my  way  home ;  I  have  to  pass  the  house,"  he  ex 
plained  in  reply  to  an  impatient  movement  in  the 
wheel  chair.  Judith  went  out  softly  and  ran  lightly 
up  the  stairway. 

"Aunt  Hilda,"  began  the  penitent  voice  above 
Aunt  Hilda's  head,  "  I  have  come  to  confess." 

"  Don,  I  wish  I  had  warned  you." 

"  Why  didn't  you  ?  "  he  asked,  miserably. 

"  Because  I  thought  you  had  common  sense." 

"  It  is  a  case  of  common  sense." 

Judith's  fingers  tapped  lightly  on  the  third  story 
door. 

"Come  in,"  called  a  girlish  voice. 

"  Are  you  studying  ?  May  I  stay  and  study  too  ? " 

"  You  are  always  ahead  of  me,"  grumbled  Lottie. 

"  Because  I  take  longer  lessons,  and  mother  has 
no  one  else  to  teach.  But  she  was  tired  to-day,  and 
I  couldn't  ask  her  about  that  dreadful  thing  in 
square  root.  Did  you  find  out  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  it's  as  easy  as  mud." 

Both  girls  laughed. 


SQUARE  BOOT  AND   OTHER   THINGS. 

"  Bensalem  mud  isn't  easy  ;  you  think  you  are 
going  through  to  China  every  spring  when  the  roads 
are  bad." 

Judith  had  brought  her  pencil  and  pad ;  for  half 
an  hour  the  girls  put  their  heads  together  over 
square  root ;  then  Lottie  Kindare  threw  her  book 
across  the  small  room  to  the  bed. 

"Judith,  I  know  something  new  to  tell  you; 
Grace  Marvin  told  me  to-day  at  recess,  and  once  it 
came  true.  I'll  show  you." 

On  the  lowest  shelf  of  the  little  book-case  Lottie 
found  her  Bible ;  it  was  dusty,  but  she  did  not  no 
tice  that. 

With  their  chairs  very  near  together,  the  Bible  in 
Lottie's  lap,  the  girls  sat  silent  a  moment ;  Judith's 
luminous  eyes  were  filled  with  expectation. 

"  Now  wish  for  what  you  want  most,"  commanded 
Lottie,  impressively. 

"  I  wish  most  of  all  for  mother  to  be  strong  enough 
to  go  to  Bensalem  with  Aunt  Affy  when  she  comes 
next  week." 

Lottie  colored  and  looked  uncomfortable;  this 
evening  before  she  came  up  stairs,  her  mother  had 
told  her  that  the  doctor  had  stopped  down  stairs  to 


30  GROWING  UP. 

say  that  Mrs.  Mackenzie  must  be  urged  to  make  no 
effort  to  go  into  the  country  ;  it  was  too  late. 

"Not  that;  something  else,"  said  Lottie,  impa 
tiently,  "  not  such  a  serious  thing." 

"  But  I  want  that  most,"  said  Judith,  piteously. 

"  Then  choose  what  you  want  second." 

"  Then  I  want  second  to  go  to  boarding-schcoL 

"  That's  good,"  exclaimed  Lottie  relieved,  "  now, 
shut  your  eyes  and  open  the  Bible  and  put  your  fin 
ger  down,  and  if  it  touches:  ' And  it  came  to  pass,' 
it  will  come  to  pass." 

"How  queer,"  said  Judith  delighted,  "what  an 
easy  way  to  find  out  things.  I  wish  I  had  known 
it  before." 

"  So  do  I,  for  then  I  might  have  known  that  I 
couldn't  have  had  a  navy  blue  silk  for  Christmas ; 
and  I  hoped  for  it  until  the  very  day." 

Without  any  misgiving,  Judith  closed  her  eyes 
and  opened  the  Bible ;  her  heart  beat  fast,  her  fin 
gers  trembled;  she  dared  not  open  her  eyes  and 
see. 

"No,  you  haven't  your  wish,"  said  Lottie's  disap 
pointed  voice;  "it  reads :  'And  a  cubit  on  one  side, 
and  a  cubit  on  the  other  side  —  that's  dreadful  and 
horrid;  I'm  so  gony,  Ju," 


SQUARE  BOOT  AND  OTHER  THINGS.        31 

So  was  Judith ;  sorry  and  frightened. 

"Now,  I'll  try.  I  wish  for  a  gold  chain  like 
Grace  Marvin's,"  she  said,  bravely.  Judith  looked 
frightened ;  but  what  was  there  to  be  afraid  of  ?  It 
was  not  like  fortune-telling ;  it  was  the  Bible. 

Judith  watched  her  nervously;  she  was  disap 
pointed  if  it  said  in  the  Bible  that  she  could  never 
go  to  boarding-school ;  but,  oh,  how  glad  she  was 
that  she  had  not  asked  the  Bible  if  her  mother 
would  ever  be  strong  enough  to  go  to  Bensalem. 
She  could  not  have  borne  nothing  but  a  cubit  about 
that.  She  would  hate  a  "  cubit "  after  this. 

"  There  ! "  cried  Lottie  jubilantly,  "  I  have  it. 
See." 

Over  the  fine  print  near  Lottie's  finger,  Judith 
bent  and  read :  "  And  it  came  to  pass" 

"  Isn't  that  splendid  ?  "  said  Lottie,  "  but  I  wish 
you  had  got  it.  Do  you  want  to  try  again  ?  " 

"  No,"  hesitated  Judith,  "  it  frightens  me,  and  I'm 
afraid  it's  wicked." 

"Wicked,"  laughed  Lottie,  "how  can  it  be 
wicked  ? " 

"I  cannot  explain  how  —  but  I'm  sure  mother 
would  not  like  it" 


32  GROWING  UP. 

"But  your  mother  is  so  particular,"  explained 
Lottie,  "  everybody  isn't.  She  thinks  there's  a  right 
and  wrong  to  everything." 

"  But  isn't  there  ?  "  persisted  Judith. 

"  No,"  contended  Lottie  boldly,  but  with  a  fear  at 
her  heart ;  "  there  isn't  about  this.  This  is  right" 

••  I  hope  it  is,"  said  Judith,  brightening. 

"We  tried  it  at  noon  recess  one  day,  and  John 
Kenney  came  and  looked  on.  He  didn't  say  what 
he  thought." 

"  Who  is  John  Kenney  ?  " 

"  The  brightest  and  handsomest  boy  in  the  High 
School.  He's  up  head  in  Latin  and  everything.  He 
was  at  my  New  Year's  Eve  party.  Don't  you  re 
member  ?  He  sang  college  songs." 

"  He's  the  big  boy  that  found  a  chair  for  me,  and 
gave  me  ice  cream  the  second  time.  I  shall  always 
remember  him"  said  Judith,  fervently.  " I  did  not 
know  his  name ;  when  I  think  about  him,  I  call  him 
John.  John  is  my  favorite  name  for  a  man ;  it  has 
a  strong  sound,  a  generous  sound,  and  I  like  the 
color  of  it." 

" The  color"  repeated  Lottie,  amazed. 

"Don't  names  have  color  and   sound   to  you?" 


SQUABE  BOOT  AND  OTHER   THINGS.        33 

asked  Judith,  surprised.  "  John  is  the  deepest 
crimson  to  me,  a  glowing  crimson.  John  belongs  to 
self-sacrifice  and  generous  deeds.  John  is  a  hero 
and  a  saint." 

Lottie  laughed  noisily.  Judith  was  the  queerest 
girl.  Her  things  were  always  getting  mixed  up  with 
thoughts.  Lottie  did  not  care  for  thoughts.  School, 
dress,  parties,  Sunday-school,  summer  vacations, 
John  Kenney,  dusting  and  making  cake,  jolly  times 
with  her  father,  and  home  times  and  making  calls 
with  her  mother,  were  only  "  things  "  to  this  girl  of 
fifteen ;  if  there  were  "  thoughts "  in  them,  she 
missed  the  thoughts.  She  was  daring  and  hand 
some;  Judith  admired  her  because  she  was  so 
different  from  herself. 

"I  don't  believe  my  mother  would  care,"  said 
Lottie,  honestly,  as  she  laid  her  Bible  in  its  place 
upon  her  book-shelf. 

"  But  your  mother  is  different,"  pleaded  Judith. 

"  Yes,  my  mother  is  well ;  I  suppose  that  makes 
the  difference." 

With  a  sigh  over  her  disappointment,  for,  some 
how,  she  thought  the  Bible  could  not  be  wrong, 
Judith  went  back  to  pad  and  pencil  and  another 
hard  example  in  square  root 


34  GROWING  UP. 

"Lady  bug,  lady  bug,  fly  away  home,"  chanted 
Don's  voice  in  the  hall  below. 

"He  has  a  different  name  for  you  every  time," 
said  Lottie.  "  Don't  tell  your  mother  if  it  will  worry 
her." 

"I  never  tell  her  things  that  worry  her,"  replied 
Judith ;  "  I've  been  waiting  three  months  to  tell  her 
that  I  have  burnt  a  hole  in  the  front  of  my  red 
cashmere  and  do  not  know  how  to  mend  it.  When 
I  go  to  Sunday-school  she  sees  me  with  my  coat  on, 
and  after  Sunday-school  I  hurry  and  put  on  a  white 
apron." 

With  her  arithmetic  and  pad,  and  a  very  grave 
face,  Judith  hastened  down  stairs. 

"  Your  mother  is  full  of  hope  about  Bensalem," 
comforted  cousin  Don ;  "  I  have  said  good-bye,  for  I 
expect  to  sail  for  Genoa  on  Saturday.  She  gave 
me  your  photograph  to  take  with  me.  I  will  write 
to  you  at  Bensalem ;  and  if  anybody  ever  hurts  you, 
write  to  me  quick  and  I'll  come  home  and  slay  them 
with  my  little  hatchet." 

"Are  you  going — so  soon?"  she  asked,  in  an  un- 
childish  way ;  "  what  will  mother  do  without  you  ?  " 

"  She  will  have  you  and  Aunt  Afly.     I  wasn't 


SQUARE  BOOT  AND  OTHER  THINGS.        85 

going  so  soon,  but  I  found  it  is  better.  Kiss  your 
cousin  Don." 

" Shall  you  stay  long?" 

"  Long  enough  to  go  to  London  to  buy  me  a  wife," 
lie  laughed  ;  "  kiss  your  cousin  Don." 

She  kissed  her  cousin  Don  with  eyes  so  filled  with 
tears  that  she  did  not  see  the  tears  in  his  eyes. 
The  street  door  fastened  itself  behind  him;  in  the 
quiet  street  she  heard  his  quick  step  on  the  pave 
ment. 

Her  mother  was  sitting  in  the  firelight  with  her 
head  resting  upon  her  hand. 

" Mother,  Don's  gone"  burst  out  Judith. 

"  Yes,  for  a  while.  He  will  never  forget  his  little 
cousin." 

"  Genoa  is  a  long  way  off." 

"  Only  a  few  days'  travel.  It  is  good  for  him  to 
go.  He  is  engaged  to  do  some  work  on  a  paper,  and 
he  has  always  desired  to  see  the  world  afoot.  It  Is 
good  for  him,"  Don's  Aunt  Hilda  repeated. 

"  But  it  isn't  good  for  us,  mother." 

"I  hope  it  is  not  bad  for  us.  —  But  I  would  be 
glad  for  him  not  to  go — just  yet,"  she  sighed. 

"Will  Miss  Marion,  his  brown  girl,  like  it?"  in 
quired  Judith,  unexpectedly. 


36  GROWING   UP. 

"  She  is  not —  why  do  you  say  that?" 

"  I  don't  know,  I  saw  her :  I  shouldn't  think  he 

would  like  to  go  and  leave  us  all,"  said  Don's  little 

cousin,  chokingly,  keeping  back  the  tears. 

"He  has  a  heartache  to-night,  poor  boy.     Now, 

little  nurse,  mother's  tired.    We  will  have  prayer 

and  go  early  to  bed." 


"WAS  THIS  THE  ENX>t"  37 


ra. 

"WAS  THIS  THE    END?*9 

"  The  worst  is  not 
So  long  as  we  can  sing :  This  is  the  worst. 

SHAKESPEABE. 

THE  two  parlors  were  swept  and  dusted ;  Marion 
Kenney  enjoyed  the  Friday  sweeping ;  she  stood  in 
the  center  of  the  back  parlor,  cheese-cloth  duster  in 
hand,  taking  a  satisfied  survey  of  the  two  comfort 
able,  old-fashioned  rooms. 

"Well,  you  are  picturesque!"  exclaimed  a  voice 
from  the  doorway  of  the  back  parlor. 

With  all  her  twenty-one  years,  Marion  Kenney 
was  girlish  enough  to  give  a  swift,  shy  look  the 
length  of  the  rooms  to  the  long  mirror  between  the 
windows  in  the  front  parlor.  But  picturesque 
was  only  —  picturesque. 

"  I  don't  see  what  a  girl  has  to  dress  herself  in 
furbelows  for,"  he  went  on,  ardently,  and  with 


33  GROWING  UP. 

evident  embarrassment,  "  when  there's  nothing  more 
becoming  than  the  housekeeping  costume;  you  are 
as  bewitching  in  that  red  sweeping-cap  as  in  your 
most  fashionable  headgear." 

"  I  like  my  morning  dresses,  too,"  she  said,  with  a 
flutter  of  breath  and  color,  "perhaps  because  I'm 
nothing  but  a  humdrum  girl  at  home." 

"  The  humdrum  girl  is  getting  to  be  the  girl  of 
the  age,"  he  ran  on,  his  words  tumbling  over  each 
other  in  the  desire  to  say,  for  once  in  his  life,  the 
least  harmful  thing;  "all  her  education  tends  to 
bring  her  down,  or  up,  to  the  humdrum,  if  you  mean 
the  hum  of  housekeeping  ways.  With  a  sensible 
education,  literary  and  musical  tastes  (not  talents), 
a  sweet  temper,  a  pretty  manner,  and  the  tact  that 
brings  out  the  best  in  a  man,  if  that  is  humdrum  "  — 
he  broke  off  abruptly,  for  he  had  kindled  a  light  in 
her  face  that  he  had  no  right  to  see. 

"  Have  I  told  you  about  my  little  cousin  Judith  ? 
But  I  know  I  have.  She's  a  womanly  little  thiiig  — 
too  womanly.  She's  the  sweetest  prophecy  of  a 
woman.  Oh,  I  remember  I  promised  to  take  you  to 
see  my  Aunt  Hilda.  But  that's  another  thing  to  be 
laid  over.  If  I  live  to  keep  all  my  promises  I  shall 
live  forever." 


"WAS  THIS  THE  ENDt"  89 

"Don't  say  that,"  she  urged,  "you  are  not  just  to 
yourself.  That  is  the  only  promise  you  have  failed 
to  keep  to  me,  and  there's  time  enough  for  that." 

"  I  fear  not,"  he  answered,  seriously, "  she  is  going 
away,  and  so  am  I." 

He  came  to  her  and  laid  the  photograph  in  her 
hand. 

"  Oh,  how  sweet ! "  was  Marion's  quick  exclama 
tion. 

"  It  is  sweet ;  but  she  is  better  than  sweet ;  she 
has  courage." 

"  The  eyes  are  too  sad  for  such  a  girl  —  how  old 
is  she  ? " 

"  Nearly  thirteen.  I  took  her  to  New  York  for  a 
day's  outing,  and  we  had  the  picture  taken.  She 
was  anxious  about  leaving  her  mother  so  long ;  the 
people  in  the  house  were  with  Aunt  Hilda,  but 
Lottie,  the  girl  in  the  house,  is  a  flighty  thing,  and 
Judith  was  not  trusting  her.  I  saw  the  look,  but  I 
couldn't  hinder  it.  It  will  go  about  through  Europe 
with  me.  Did  Roger  tell  you  last  night  —  I  asked 
him  to  —  that  I'm  off  for  my  long-talked-of  tour 
around  the  world  ? " 

"No"  replied  Marian,) startled  out  of  her  self- 
command. 


40  GROWING  Z7B, 

"  Perhaps  he  came  home  late.  I  wanted  to  pre 
pare  you.  It  is  not  so  sudden  in  my  thoughts. 
But  I  always  do  things  suddenly  after  years  of 
thinking  about  them.  My  father  wanted  me  to  do 
this.  He  said  if  I  were  not  careful,  money  and  lit 
erary  tastes  would  make  me  an  idle  dog.  That  set 
of  Ruskin  in  my  room  I  have  left  for  you.  You 
have  made  my  winter  here  so  home-like,  so  refresh 
ingly  '  humdrum,'  that  I  don't  know  how  to  thank 
you.  When  Roger  begged  me  to  come  Thanksgiving 
Day  I  feared  that  I  would  be  one  too  many,  but 
you  all  took  me  in  so  naturally  that  I  feel  as  if  I 
had  grown  up  in  your  old  house  with  you  and 
Roger.  It's  awfully  hard  to  go,  now  I've  come  to 
the  point ;  somehow  I  hated  my  ticket  as  soon  as  I 
took  it  into  my  hand.  But  I  knew  Aunt  Hilda  and 
Judith  were  going  to  Bensalem,  and  I  cannot  be 
with  them  there.  But — you  will  write  to  me?"  he 
asked,  pausing  in  his  rush  of  words. 

He  had  vowed  that  he  would  not  speak  of  letters, 
but  the  unconscious  appeal  of  her  attitude,  the  look 
that  he  felt  in  the  eyes  that  could  not  lift  them 
selves  had  given  his  heart  an  ache,  that,  the  next 
instant,  he  hated  her  for  making  him  feel.  What 


41 


right  had  she  to  hold  him  so?  He  was  Eoger's 
friend.  He  had  only  been  kind,  and  frank  and  con 
siderate  toward  her,  and  grateful,  because  she  had 
touched  his  life  with  a  touch  like  healing  —  he  was 
a  better  fellow  than  he  was  last  winter ;  he  had 
told  her  one  confidential  Sunday  twilight  that  he 
almost  wanted  to  be  a  Christian. 

"When  will  you  — come  back?"  she  faltered, 
speaking  her  uppermost  thought. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  roughly. 
"  They  may  keep  me  there  years,  if  I  do  well  for  the 
paper — or  I  may  study  there — Judith  and  her 
mother  may  bring  me  home — I  have  promised 
Aunt  Hilda  to  take  Judith  for  my  sister ;  that  is  a 
rousing  responsibility  for  a  bachelor  like  me.  I 
have  been  near  them  this  winter,  which  was  one  of 
my  reasons  for  coming  here.  Now  I  think  of  it, 
perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  if  I  had  never 
come." 

" /  think  it  would" 

The  slow,  impressive  words  uttered  themselres. 
She  heard  them  as  if  another  voice  had  spoken  them. 
They  told  the  whole  truth,  the  whole,  terrible,  sor 
rowful  truth,  and  he  knew  it 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said*  with  a  flash  of  denanea 


42  GROWING  UP. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said,  not  seeing  the  hand  held 
firmly  toward  him. 

"  I  will  not  write  to  you — you  have  no  right  to 
ask  it." 

"  No,  I  have  not,"  he  answered  humbly,  "  I  have 
no  right  to  anything ;  not  even  to  ask  you  to  become 
my  wife." 

She  lifted  her  proud  eyes;  her  lips  framed  the 
words  that  her  tongue  refused  to  speak. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  hardly  know  what  I 
said." 

"  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  tell  me  that" 

"  And  you  will  not  write  to  me  ?' 

"No." 

"  I  am  unhappy  enough,"  he  blundered,  tt  I  never 
thought  our  happy  winter  would  end  like  this.  I 
did  not  mean  it  to  end  like  this." 

It  was  ended  then.  She  herself  had  ended  it 
He  would  never  hear  the  new  music  she  was  prac 
ticing  for  him;  they  would  not  read  together  the 
"  Essays  of  Elia  "  he  had  given  her  last  week  j  she 
could  never  tell  him  — 

"  I  must  catch  the  next  train  ;  Eoger  and  I  have 
a  farewell  dinner  in  New  York  to-day.  Old  fellow, 


"WAS  THIS  THE  END?"  43 

I'm  sorry  to  leave  him.  I  suppose  when  I  return  I 
shall  find  him  rusting  out  in  Bensalem;  for  he's 
determined  to  go  there  against  all  the  arguments  I 
can  bring  up.  Good-bye,  Marion." 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said,  again,  allowing  her  fingers 
to  stay  a  moment  in  his  hand. 

"  God  bless  you,  dear." 

She  remembered  the  blessing  afterward ;  after 
ward,  she  remembered,  too  :  "  and  forgive  me."  Or 
did  she  imagine  that  ?  Why  should  he  say  that  ? 
How  had  he  hurt  her  ?  He  had  only  been  like  Eoger. 

She  had  said  —  what  did  she  say  that  he  should 
ask  her  to  become  his  wife  when  he  had  not  once 
thought  of  it  all  winter  —  when  he  was  going  away 
for  years  without  thinking  of  it. 

In  her  bewilderment  she  could  not  recall  the  ter 
rible  and  true  words  she  herself  had  spoken,  she 
imagined  them  to  be  beyond  everything  more  dread 
ful  than  she  would  dare  think ;  they  burned  her 
through  and  through,  these  words  that  had  said 
themselves.  Were  they  hurting  him  every  hour  as 
they  were  hurting  her  ? 

Impetuous  she  knew  herself  to  be ;  frank  to  a  fault 
Koger  plainly  told  her  that  she  was ;  often  and  often 


44  GROWING  UP. 

her  outbursts  were  to  her  own  heart-breaking ;  but 
nothing  before  had  she  ever  done  like  this ;  there 
was  no  excuse  for  this,  no  healing ;  he  would  despise 
her  as  long  as  he  lived,  and  she  would  have  no 
power  ever  to  forget 

Shame  that  he  understood,  that  he  had  all  the 
time  understood,  was  burning  her  up  like  a  fever; 
that  he  was  gone  she  was  unfeignedly  glad,  that  she 
might  see  his  dear  face  no  more,  she  sometimes 
prayed.  Still,  with  it  all,  her  life  went  on  as  usual ; 
the  errands  down  town,  the  calls,  her  Sunday-school 
class,  her  King's  Daughters'  meetings,  her  regular 
hours  for  practice,  the  cake-making,  the  sweeping, 
she  even  began  to  read  one  of  the  volumes  of  Eus- 
kin  she  found  on  the  table  in  his  chamber,  with  her 
name  and  his  initials  written  in  each  book ;  her 
life  went  on,  her  life  with  the  heart  gone  out  of  it ; 
her  life  went  on,  but  herself  seemed  staying  be 
hind  somewhere. 

It  was  a  relief  that  Roger  was  away  a  part  of 
every  week,  Roger,  whom  nothing  escaped;  the 
others  saw  nothing,  —  she  believed  there  was  noth 
ing  for  them  to  see. 


BENSALEM. 


nr. 

BEN8ALEM. 

All  service  ranks  the  same  with  God; 
If  now,  as  formerly  he  trod 
Paradise,  his  presence  fills 
Our  earth,  each  only  as  God  wills 

Can  work. 

EGBERT  BBOWHIHO. 

IN  large  black  letters  the  word  POST  OFFICE  stared 
down  the  Bensalem  street  from  the  end  door  of  a 
small  white  house.  A  plump  lady  in  grey  pushed 
open  the  door;  the  bell  over  the  door  sharply  an 
nounced  her  entrance;  she  stepped  into  the  tiny 
room;  straight  before  her  a  door  was  shut,  at  her 
right  were  rows  of  glass  pigeonholes  with  numerals 
pasted  upon  them;  no  head  was  visible  at  the 
window  the  pigeonholes  surrounded;  while  she 
stood  ready  to  tap  upon  the  closed  door  that  led  into 
the  sitting-room,  the  sound  of  a  horn  clear  and  loud 
gave  her  a  start  and  betrayed  her  into  a  |uick  excla 
mation  :  "  Why,  deary  me.  What  next  f  " 


4t>  GROWING   UP. 

"Come  in  here,  come  in  here,"  called  a  shaky 
voice  from  the  other  side  of  the  closed  door. 

She  pushed  the  door  open,  to  be  confronted  by  the 
figure  of  an  old  man  lying  in  bed  with  a  tin  horn  in 
his  hand. 

"Come  right  in,  Miss  Afiy,"  the  old  man  said 
cheerfully ;  "  I've  got  one  of  my  dreadful  rheumatic 
days  and  can't  twist  myself  out  of  bed;  I've  had 
my  bed  down  here  for  a  week  now.  I've  got  all  the 
mail  in  bed  with  me.  Sarah  had  to  go  out  and  milk 
and  feed  the  chickens,  so  she  brought  the  few  letters 
and  papers  that  were  left  over  in  here  for  me  to 
take  care  of.  Doctor  says  I'll  be  about  in  a  week  or 
so,  if  he  can  keep  the  fever  down.  I  never  had 
rheumatic  fever  before.  Nobody  comes  this  time  of 
day  for  letters.  Nothing  happens  about  five  o'clock 
excepting  feeding  the  chickens.  Sarah  milks  earlier 
than  most  folks  so  as  to  tend  the  mail,  when  the 
stage  gets  in.  She  went  out  earlier  than  usual  to 
day  because  she  forgot  the  little  chickens  at  noon. 
She  just  put  her  head  in  to  say  she  had  taken  a  new 
brood  off.  Do  sit  down  a  minute.  Didn't  Mr. 
Brush  tell  you  I  had  rheumatic  fever  ?  Sarah  must 
have  told  him  when  he  came  for  his  paper,  night  be- 


BENSALEM.  4T 

fore  last  She  tells  everybody.  I  blew  the  horn  to 
call  Sarah  in,  but  I  don't  believe  she'll  come  until 
she  gets  ready.  The  mail  doesn't  mean  anything  to 
her  excepting  getting  our  pay  regular.  There's  all 
the  letters  on  the  foot  of  the  bed ;  you  can  pick  yours 
out.  Sarah  said  you  had  a  letter,  and  she  guessed  it 
was  from  your  niece,  Mrs.  Mackenzie,  or  her  little 
girl.  Yes,  that's  it.  Mr.  Brush's  paper  is  there, 
too." 

The  plump  lady  in  grey,  with  a  long  grey  curl 
behind  each  ear,  picked  among  the  letters  and  papers 
at  the  foot  of  the  untidy  bed,  and  found  a  letter  in  a 
pretty  hand  addressed  to  Miss  Affy  S.  Sparrow,  and 
a  newspaper  bearing  the  printed  label,  Cephas 
Brush. 

"That  is  all,"  remarked  the  Bensalem  postmaster; 
"  never  mind  fixing  them  straight ;  I  get  uneasy  and 
tumble  them  around." 

"  I  will  sit  here  and  read  the  letter,  if  I  may." 
"  Oh,  yes,  do.     I  haven't  heard  any  news  to-day." 
"  I'm  afraid  I  haven't  brought  you  any,"  said  Miss 
Affy,  "  and  you  will  not  care  for  n  y  letter." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  shall,"  he  answered,  eagerly.  "  I  was 
wishing  I  could  read  all  the  letters  to  amuse  me.  I 


48  3ROWUH3  UP. 


did  read  Mr.  Brush's  paper.  I  tucked  it  all  back 
smooth  ;  I  knew  he  wouldn't  care." 

"He  will  call  and  bring  you  papers,"  promised 
Miss  Affy,  tearing  open  the  envelope  with  a  hair 
pin. 

"  I  wish  he  would.  And  a  book,  too.  I  wanted 
Sarah  to  take  my  book  back  to  the  library  to-day, 
and  get  another  to  read  to-night  if  I  can't  sleep,  but 
she  said  she  hadn't  time;  and,  she  can't  now,  be 
cause  there's  supper  and  the  mail  coming  in,"  he 
groaned.  "  I  had  an  awful  night  last  night  ;  and  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  '  Tempest  and  Sunshine,'  I  don't 
know  how  I  should  have  got  through  it" 

"That  was  enough  for  one  night,"  laughed  the 
lady  at  the  window  reading  the  letter.  "  I  will  try 
to  find  you  something  better  than  that  for  to-night" 

"Will  you  go  to  the  library  for  me?  That's  just 
like  you,  Miss  Affy." 

"  Yes,  I  will  go.  If  I  cannot  find  anything  I  like 
I  will  call  somewhere  else.  There  should  be  books 
enough  in  Bensalem  to  help  you  through  the  night" 

"  Is  your  letter  satisfactory,"  he  questioned, 
curiously,  as  she  slipped  it  back  into  the  envelope. 

"Mrs.  Mackenzie  is  very  feeble;  she  wishes  to 


49 


come  to  Bensalem  for  the  change,  and  asks  me  to  go 
and  bring  her  and  Judith." 

'  But  you  and  Miss  Rody  will  not  want  the  trouble 
of  sick  folks." 

"  We  want  her"  said  Miss  Affy,  rising  ;  **  £  will 
leave  your  book  in  the  post-office,  Mr.  Gunn,  so  you 
need  not  blow  the  horn  when  you  hear  me  open  the 
door." 

"  But  it  may  not  be  you  ;  how  shall  I  know?  " 

"  True  enough.    Blow  your  horn,  then." 

"  You  can  look  in  if  it's  you,  and  Sarah  isn't  there." 

"Where  is  the  book  to  take  back?" 

"  '  Tempest  and  Sunshine.'  Oh,  Sarah  hasn't  fin 
ished  it  yet  I  forgot  that,"  he  said  disappointedly. 
"  She  read  it  yesterday  and  gave  me  nothing  but 
bread  and  milk  for  supper,  and  I  wanted  pork  and 
eggs.  She  was  on  it  long  enough  to  finish,"  he 
grumbled. 

"No  matter,  then.  I'll  get  one  for  myself.  It 
will  be  the  first  book  I  have  taken  from  the  library." 

"  And  you  such  a  reader,  too.  How  many  maga 
zines  do  you  take?  I'd  like  some  of  your  old 
magazines  while  I'm  laid  up." 

"  Mr.  Brush  will  bring  you  a  Mg  bundle.    But  I 


50  GROWING  UP. 

will  go  to  the  library  now,  for  he  may  not  wish  to 
bring  them  to-night" 

The  school  library  was  kept  at  the  house  of  one  of 
the  school  trustees;  the  errand  gave  Miss  Affy 
another  quarter  of  a  mile  to  walk,  and  it  also  gave 
her  the  opportunity  of  a  call  upon  Nettie  Evans, 
whose  small  home  was  next  door  to  the  school- 
library.  Cephas  Brush  had  told  her  that  she  knew 
how  to  kill  more  birds  with  one  stone  than  any 
woman  he  knew 

She  walked  past  the  syringa  bushes  of  the  school 
trustee's  front  yard,  and  knocked  on  the  front  door 
with  the  big  brass  knocker ;  there  was  no  response 
excepting  the  sound  of  rubbing  and  splash  of  water 
that  came  through  the  open  kitchen  window.  Miss 
Affy  knocked  the  second  time  with  more  determined 
fingers.  It  was  a  pity  to  take  Mrs.  Finch  from  her 
washing,  but  it  would  be  more  of  a  pity  to  let  that 
old  man  toss  in  pain  and  groan  for  a  book  to  read. 
As  she  gave  the  second  knock  she  wondered  if  his 
lamp  were  safely  arranged,  and  if  the  reading  by 
lamp-light  did  not  injure  his  eyes ;  she  would  look 
tor  a  book  with  good  type. 

The  kitchen  door  was  quickly  opened,  a  woman 


BENSALEM.  51 

with  rolled-up  sleeves  and  dripping,  par-boiled  fingers 
called  out  pleasantly :  "  Why  don't  you  come  to  this 
door  ? " 

"  Excuse  me,  Mrs.  Finch,"  said  Miss  Affy,  walking 
past  another  syringa  bush,  "  I  came  to  the  Circulating 
Library." 

"  The  Circulating  Library  is  where  I  am.  I  keep 
it  in  the  kitchen,  because  I  cannot  circulate  about 
my  work  to  attend  it,"  replied  Mrs.  Finch,  extending 
a  hospitable  wet  hand;  "You  see  I'm  late  to-day; 
usually  my  washing  is  all  out  at  eleven  o'clock.  But 
his  folks  came  to  dinner,  three  of  them,  unexpectedly 
— Monday,  too,  and  I  had  to  spring  around  and  cook 
a  dinner ;  the  Sunday  left-overs  wouldn't  do.  They 
didn't  leave  the  house  until  half-past  two,  so  I  had 
to  leave  the  dinner  dishes,  piled  them  up  in  the 
shed,  under  a  pan,  and  put  on  my  boiler  again.  It 
don't  often  happen,  and  I  put  a  good  face  on  it." 

"  You  turn  a  very  cheery  face  toward  life,  Mrs. 
Finch." 

"  Well,  I  try  to.  It's  all  I've  got  to  give  anyway;" 
Mrs.  Finch  replied,  removing  the  cover  from  the 
boiler  and  poking  at  the  clothes  with  a  long  clothes- 
stick  ;  the  steam  rolled  out  the  door  and  windows ; 


52  GROWING   UP. 

as  the  room  was  cleared,  Miss  Affy  discovered  a  high 
mahogany  bureau  with  brass  rings,  the  top  of  which 
was  covered  with  books  in  neat  piles. 

"  You  are  welcome  to  look  at  the  books  and  take 
one.  I  wish  you  would  sit  down,  Miss  Affy,  I  can 
talk  while  I  work. 

"I  wish  I  might  stay  and  wash  the  dishes  for 
you." 

Miss  Affy  prayed  every  day,  "  Use  Dae,  Lord,  any 
way,  any  where." 

"  With  that  dress  on? "  said  Mrs.  Finch,  regarding 
the  new  spring  suit  with  favor.  "  I  couldn't  help 
looking  at  you  in  church,  if  it  was  Sunday,  and 
thinking  that  you  looked  sweet  enough  to  be  a 
bride." 

"Thank  you.  I  am  fond  of  this  dress,"  replied 
Miss  Affy  in  her  simple,  sweet  way. 

"  When  you  are  married,  you  must  be  married  in 
gray.  I  was  married  in  white.  Thirty  years  ago." 

"  I  remember  it,"  said  Miss  Affy,  "  Cephas  and  I 
were  there." 

"  Don't  think  about  the  dishes.  It's  just  like 
you." 

"  I  would  more  than  think  about  chein,  but  I 


BENSALEM.  53 

must  call  on  Nettie,  and  then  I  promised  to  read 
awhile  to  Mrs.  Trembly  ;  she  is  more  blind  than  she 
was,  and  Agnes  breaks  her  heart  because  she  cannot 
find  more  time  to  read  to  her  and  amuse  her." 

"They  should  come  before  dishes.  People  first, 
1  say.  That's  why  I'm  behind  with  my  washing. 
People  first,  I  say  to  Jonas,  and  he  looks  scornful. 
But  it  will  pay  some  day." 

"  You  have  not  a  catalogue  ?  " 

"  A  seed  catalogue  ?  We've  never  had  a  call  for 
that.  I  thought  everybody  had  one." 

"  So  we  have,  dozens.  I  meant  a  catalogue  of  the 
books.  I  would  like  to  know  what  our  boys  and 
girls  are  reading." 

"  Grown  people,  too.  Everybody  reads  the  books. 
Every  time  Mr.  Gunn  is  laid  up  he  is  crazy  for 
books.  Look  them  over ;  lots  of  them  are  out. 
No  matter  how  you  put  them  back,  if  you  only  pile 
them  up." 

"  But  you  have  a  book  in  which  to  put  down  my 
name  and  the  number  of  the  book  I  take." 

"  Oh,  no;  take  any  you  like.  I  couldn't  be  both 
ered  that  way.  We  expect  new  books.  The  last 
entertainment  the  school  children  had  was  to 


54  GROWING  UP. 

raise  money  for  books.  We  don't  get  anything  for 
keeping  the  hooks,  but  Jonas  is  the  greatest  reader 
that  ever  was  ;  he  has  read  them  all  But  I  never 
have  time.  I  don't  know  what  is  in  any  of  them." 

"  Your  husband  knows.  I  am  glad  he  reads 
them.  Our  young  people  must  be  taken  care  of. 
Books  have  been  everything  to  me.  These  books 
are  an  influence  in  Bensalem." 

"  I  hope  so,"  replied  the  keeper  of  the  books,  not 
thinking  for  an  instant  that  they  could  be  otherwise 
than  a  good  influence. 

"  Excuse  me  if  I  go  on  with  my  work  ;  that  is  the 
last  boiler-full." 

"  I  would  not  stay  if  I  interrupted  you,"  said  Miss 
Affy.  "  I  may  take  considerable  time,  for  I  want  to 
know  what  our  boys  and  girls  are  reading.  I  know 
every  book  in  the  Sunday-school  library,  but  I  had 
forgotten  that  Bensalem  boasted  a  public  school 
library." 

After  a  half-hour's  search,  Miss  Affy's  choice  was 
made ;  the  type  of  the  book  was  not  large  enough 
for  the  old  man's  reading  at  night,  but  the  story  was 
excellent :  "  Samuel  Budget,  the  Successful  Mer 
chant." 


BENSALEM.  55 

"  I'm  sorry  about  the  type,"  she  said,  "  but  it  is 

better  than  the  newspapers." 

"  The  type  ?  Is  that  the  name  of  the  story  ? " 
questioned  the  woman  at  the  wash-tub. 

"  The  print  I  should  say.  Thank  you  for  letting 
me  come.  But  I  am  sorry  to  leave  those  dishes." 

"  Don't  be  sorry.  My  kitchen  will  be  very  sweet 
when  the  syringas  are  out.  And  don't  think  I'm 
always  so  late  with  my  washing.  It  was  all  his 
folks." 

"  How  is  Nettie  these  days  ? " 

"Miserable  enough.  She  doesn't  know  how  to 
get  outside  of  her  poor  little  self.  But  then,  who 
of  us  does,  until  we  are  pulled  out  ?  "  she  asked,  with 
cheerful  philosophy,  as  Miss  Affy  went  away  past 
the  syringa  bushes. 

Miss  Affy  spent  an  hour  in  Nettie  Evans's  cham 
ber,  telling  the  little  girl  stories  about  her  great- 
niece,  Judith  Mackenzie,  who  lived  in  the  city  with 
her  dear,  sick  mother,  and  they  both  were  soon  com 
ing  to  Bensalem,  and  Judith  would  love  to  visit  her 
often,  and  Judith  told  stories,  that  were  worth  tell 
ing  ;  last  summer  in  the  evenings,  in  Summer 
Avenue,  she  had  a  dozen  boys  and  girls  on  the  steps, 


56  GROWING   UP. 

listening  to  her  stories  continued  from  one  evening 
to  another.  Nettie's  white  face  grew  glad,  and  in 
the  night  she  was  comforted  by  the  thought  of  the 
coming  of  the  story-teller.  Then  Miss  Affy  crossed 
the  street  to  the  one-story  yellow  house  and  read 
from  a  Sunday-school  library-book  to  blind  Mrs. 
Trembly,  whose  only  daughter  had  little  time  to 
spare  her  mother  from  her  housekeeping  and  dress 
making,  and  on  her  way  home,  stopped  at  the  Post- 
office  with  "  Samuel  Budget." 

At  the  supper  table,  she  remarked  to  Cephas  and 
her  sister  Rody  :  "  I  do  hope  our  new  minister  will 
have  a  good  wife.  Bensalem  needs  the  ministry  of 
a  woman — a  real  deaconess." 

"  As  if  you  weren't  one,"  said  Cephas,  with  ad 
miration  in  his  eyes. 

"But  I'm  not  the  minister's  wife." 

"  Nor  anybody  else's,"  retorted  Aunt  Rody,  sharp 
ly,  with  a  look  at  the  bald-headed,  white-whiskered 
man  opposite  her  at  the  foot  of  the  table.  The  look 
passed  over  him  instead  of  going  through  him,  as  he 
gave  a  laugh,  a  contented  laugh  that  hurt  Aunt 
Rody,  even  more  than  she  had  intended  her  look  to 
hurt 


BE1T8ALEM.  57 

Those  two  would  circumvent  her  some  day ;  the 
longer  she  lived  the  more  sure  she  was  of  it,  and  the 
more  would  it  cut  her  to  the  quick.  Every  year  she 
fought  against  it  (if  one  can  fight  with  no  antago 
nist),  the  more  rebelliously  she  was  set  against  it. 
There  was  hut  one  hope  for  her :  that  she  would 
outlive  one  of  them ;  she  hoped  to  outlive  both  of 
them. 


58  GROWING  UP. 


V. 

DAILY  BKEAD  AND  DAILY  WILL. 

"  We  walk  by  faith  and  not  by  sight." 

"  Creatures  of  reason  do  not  necessarily  become  unrea 
sonable  when  they  consent  to  walk  by  faith;  nor  do  crea 
tures  of  trust  necessarily  become  faithless  when  they  are 

gladdened  in  a  walk  by  sight." 

/ 

JUDITH  sat  in  the  bay-window  with  a  book  in  her 
lap  ;  a  box  of  books  had  come  by  express  to  Miss 
Judith  G.  Mackenzie  the  very  day  her  Cousin  Don 
sailed  for  Genoa;  they  were  books  written  for 
children ;  they  were  all  Judith's  own. 

With  the  light  of  the  sunset  in  her  face,  Judith 
sat  reading  Jean  Ingelow's  "  Stories  Told  to  a 
Child." 

"  O  mother,  it  is  too  splendid  for  anything,"  she 
exclaimed ;  "  when  you  are  rested  I  will  read  it  to 
you." 

"  Is  your  ironing  all  done  ?  " 

"Yes,  mother." 


DAILY  BREAD  AND  DAILY   WILL.          59 

"  And  Aunt  Affy's  bed  made  ?  " 

"  All  made.  Mrs.  Kindare  put  up  the  cot  herself 
and  lent  me  two  blankets.  It  is  a  cunning  room ; 
Aunt  Affy  will  like  it ;  Mrs.  Kindare  said  she  could 
spare  the  room  better  than  not,  and  Aunt  Affy  may 
stay  a  month,  waiting  until  we  can  go  home  with 
her." 

"  Put  away  your  book,  dear ;  and  come  and  sit  on 
the  rug  close  to  me.  I  want  to  be  all  alone  with 
my  little  girl  once  more  before  Aunt  Affy  conies." 

Reluctantly  Judith  closed  the  book ;  she  remem 
bered  afterward  that  she  thought  she  would  rather 
finish  the  story  than  go  and  sit  on  the  rug  and  talk 
to  her  mother. 

"Mother,"  she  began,  as  brightly  as  though  a 
minute  ago  she  had  not  wished  to  finish  the  story 
first,  "  Don  might  have  stayed  with  us  all  winter 
and  had  that  room  to  sleep  in." 

"  Yes,  I  thought  of  that.  It  would  have  made  a 
difference  in  somebody's  life.'5" 

"  Whose  life  ?  "  Judith  questioned. 

"In  his  own,"  replied  her  mother,  "and  other 
people's.  I  did  not  intend  to  speak  my  thought 
aloud." 


60  GROWING   UP. 

The  sunset  was  in  the  room :  it  was  over  Judith, 
and  over  her  mother. 

"  Was  he  sorry  he  did  not  come  here  ? "  Judith 
persisted. 

"  I  think  he  was.  He  said  we  would  have  made 
him  so  comfortable.  He  would  have  taken  his 
meals  with  Mrs.  Kindare." 

"  Are  you  sorry,  too  ?  " 

"No  —  not  exactly.  If  it  were  a  mistake,  it  will 
be  taken  care  of  —  it  is  very  queer  to  trust  God  with 
our  sins  and  not  with  our  mistakes." 

"  I  made  a  '  mistake '  that  night  he  was  here, 
mother ;  I  did  not  mean  to  make  a  sin." 

"  Tell  me,  dear." 

"  I  thought  I  would  never  tell.  I  was  afraid  it 
would  worry  you.  But  I  cried  after  I  went  to  bed. 
You  will  think  me  naughty  and  silly." 

"  Do  I  ever  ?  " 

"Yes,  oh,  yes,"  smiled  Judith,  "you  always  do 
every  time  I  am." 

"  I  could  not  lie  down  in  peaceful  sleep  to-night 
if  I  believed  that  my  little  daughter  kept  a  thought 
in  her  heart  she  would  rather  not  tell  her  mother." 

"  But  I  shouldn't  keep  silly  thoughts  in  my 
heart.'^' 


DAILY  BREAD  AND  DAILY  WILL.          61 

"  That  is  what  mothers  are  for  —  to  hear  all  the 
silly  things." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you,"  decided  Judith,  bringing 
herself  from  a  lounging  posture,  upright,  and  yet  not 
touching  her  mother's  knees ;  "  that  night  Lottie 
said  there  was  a  good  way  to  find  out  what  would 
happen  to  you  next  —  to  wish  for  a  thing  and  shut 
your  eyes  and  open  the  Bible  and  put  your  hand 
on  a  verse,  and  if  it  said  And  it  came  to  pass  you 
would  certainly  nave  it.  "We  both  did  it,  and  she 
got  her  wish  and  I  didn't  get  mine.  My  heart  was 
heavy,  for  I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't  like  it  as  soon 
as  I  did  it. ' 

"  I  do  not  like  it.     But  I  am  glad  you  did  it." 

"  Why,  mother" 

"Because  I  can  talk  to  you  about  something  I 
might  never  have  thought  about." 

"  I  like  that,"  said  Judith,  comforted ;  "  I  hope 
Cousin  Don's  mistake  will  be  good  for  him." 

"  It  is  already.  What  do  you  want  to  know  about 
yourself  ? " 

"Things  that  will  happen,  grown-up  things.  I 
make  castles  about  grown-up  things.  When  I 
make  an  air-castle  I  am  never  a  little  girl,  but  a  big 


62  GROWING   UP. 

girl,  fifteen  or  eighteen,  and  that  kind  of  things  hap 
pen;  the  kind  of  things  that  happen  to  girls  in 
books.  Is  that  silly  ? " 

"  No ;  it  is  only  not  wise.  It  spoils  to-day,  and 
to-day  is  too  good  to  be  spoiled.  God  has  made  to 
day  for  us,  and  we  slight  his  gift  by  passing  it  by 
and  trying  to  find  out  the  things  that  will  happen 
to  us  to-morrow.  Suppose  you  would  not  read  the 
children's  books  Cousin  Don  sent  you,  but  coax  him 
to  give  you  grown-up  books." 

"  I  couldn't  be  so  mean,"  said  Judith  warmly. 

"  But  questions  do  come  to  us,  wonders  about  our 
grown-up  time.  Is  it  not  trusting  God  more  to  wait 
for  His  answers  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  am  waiting  —  unless  I  can  find  a 
way  — like  that  way  —  to  find  out." 

"  That  is  not  God' s  way ;  he  never  told  us  to  find 
out  his  will  that  way.  When  he  said,  'And  it 
came  to  pass,'  it  was  about  something  that  had  hap 
pened,  not  about  something  that  will  happen ;  and 
about  someone  else,  and  not  about  you.  The  Bible 
was  not  written  to  tell  us  such  things." 

"But  I  didn't  know  that  really,"  said  Judith, 
miserable,  and  ready  to  cry. 


DAILY  BREAD  AND  DAILY  WILL.         63 

"That  was  a  mistake,  not  a  sin.  We  all  make 
mistakes  before  we  know  better.  If  you  should  do 
so  again,  it  would  be  a  sin,  because  now  you  know 
better." 

"  But  people  did  cast  lots  in  Bible  times.  Don't 
you  know  about  finding  out  about  another  disciple 
to  make  up  the  twelve  after  Judas  killed  himself  ?  I 
read  that  to  you  this  morning." 

"  Yes,  I  remember  that.  Casting  lots  was  one  of 
God's  ways  in  old  times  to  discover  his  will  The 
lot  was  cast  into  the  lap,  and  the  disposal  thereof 
was  of  the  Lord.  They  knew  God  was  willing  for 
for  them  to  cast  lots." 

"  Yes,"  said  Judith,  hi  her  intelligent  voice. 

"  And  this,  I  just  thought  of  it.  That  time  about 
choosing  another  disciple  was  the  last  time.  After 
the  Holy  Spirit  was  given  there  was  no  need ;  the 
Holy  Spirit  always  reveals  the  will  of  God." 

Judith's  eyes  grew  dull ;  she  could  not  under 
stand  ;  she  felt  dimly  that  she  had  done  wrong  in 
not  trusting  God  to  tell  her  about  her  "wish"  in 
his  own  way. 

"  Whenever,  in  all  your  life  to  come,  a  question 
about  your  future  comes  to  you,  a  longing  to  know 


64  GROWING  UP. 

about  something  that  may  happen  to  you,  or  may 
not  happen  —  but  I  should  not  say  that ;  I  should 
say  about  something  God  may  will  to  give  you,  or 
may  will  to  keep  from  you,  say  this  to  yourself :  I 
need  not  think  about  it ;  God  knows  all  about  it,  for 
he  makes  it ;  he  will  tell  me  as  soon  as  he  wants  me 
to  know." 

"  Yes,"  said  Judith,  with  a  childVconfidence. 

"After  that,  it  would  be  not  only  'silly,'  but 
faithless  to  think  about  it.  Every  day  brings  its 
own  answer ;  your  daily  bread  and  God's  daily  will 
come  together ;  his  bread  gives  us  strength  to  do 
his  will.  Will  mother's  little  girl  remember  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Judith  gravely ;  "  and  when  you  see 
me  forgetting  you  must  remind  me.  Will  it  be 
wrong  if  I  say  'daily  will'  when  I  say  'daily 
bread '  ? " 

"Not  wrong,"  answered  her  mother,  smiling, 
"only  that  it  comes  in  the  prayer  before  daily 
bread." 

"Does  it?" 

"  Repeat  it  and  see." 

Judith  repeated  :  "  Our  Father,  who  art  in  heaven ; 
Hallowed  be  thy  name ;  Thy  kingdom  come ;  Th'Jr 


DAILY  BREAD  AND   DAILY  WILL.          65 

will  be  done  on  earth  as  it  is  in  heaven ;  give  us  this 
day  our  daily  bread  — Why,  so  it  does.  But  I 
didn't  put  them  together  before." 

"  The  will  comes  first.  If  we  do  his  will,  he  will 
not  forget  the  things  we  long  for  every  day.  Love 
his  will  better  than  your  own  will  and  wishes." 

"That's  hard,"  said  Judith,  "I  don't  know  how." 

"  That  is  what  you  are  in  the  world  for,  to  learn 
how." 

Judith  arose  and  stood  before  the  grate  with 
sweet,  grave,  troubled  eyes. 

The  yellow  hair,  the  innocent  face,  the  blue  dress, 
the  loving  touch  of  lips  and  fingers,  the  growing 
into  girlhood ;  how  could  she  give  them  up  and 
go? 

"  O,  mother,  mother ! "  cried  Judith,  turning  at  the 
sound  of  a  stifled  cry,  "Are  you  worse?  What  shall 
I  do  ? "  then  in  a  tone  of  quick,  astonished  joy,  "  Oh; 
here's  Aunt  Affy  at  the  door!" 


66  GROWING  UP. 


VI 

THE  BEST  THING  IN  THE  WORLD. 

"  What's  the  best  thing  in  the  world? 
Something  out  of  it,  I  think." 

ELIZABETH  BAKBETT  BROWNING. 

FROM  Genoa  there  came  a  note  to  Marion :  — 

"Dear  friend  Marion: 

To-day's  mail  brings  me  saddest  and  most  un 
expected  news.  I  believed  my  Aunt  Hilda  would 
live  years ;  I  would  not  have  left  her  had  I  thought 
she  would  be  taken  so  soon.  She  died  in  Summer 
Avenue  before  she  could  be  taken  to  Bensalem. 
Judith  has  written  herself,  the  bravest  child's  letter. 
She  is  in  Bensalem  with  two  old  aunts  of  her 
mother. 

Eoger  hopes  to  have  you  for  his  housekeeper  ;  you 
will  b«  near  Judith  ;  will  you  take  her  under  your 
wing  ?  Her  mother  especially  wished  her  not  to  go 
to  boaidiug-school.  She  has  always  been  a  child  of 
promiao ;  she  may  fizzle  out  as  promising  children 


THE  BEST  THING  IAr  THE  WORLD.  67 

do  and  become  only  an  ordinary  girl ;  but  she  will 
always  be  sweet  and  brave,  which  is  better  than 
being  brilliant.  One  sweet  woman  is  worth  a  thou 
sand  brilliant  ones ;  that  is  the  reason  there  are  so 
many  more  sweet  ones.  I  would  change  my  plans 
and  return  for  her  sake,  but  what  can  a  bachelor 
cousin  do  for  her  ?  She  will  be  sheltered  from  harm 
ful  influences  in  Bensalem.  She  will  write  me  reg 
ularly.  I  have  written  to  Eoger  about  her  money 

affairs. 

Your  friend,  DON." 

In  reply  Marion  wrote  the  briefest  note  :  — 

"  Dear  friend  Don : 

I  will  do  my  best  for  Judith. 

Yours  truly,  MARION." 

"  It  will  be  the  best  thing  in  the  world  for 
Marion,"  replied  the  voice  of  Marion's  mother. 

"  There  is  no  best  thing  in  the  world  for  Marion," 
Marion  told  herself  wearily,  rising  from  the  back 
parlor  sofa,  where  she  had  thrown  herself  to  be 
alone,  and  stepping  softly  across  the  room  to  the 
door. 


68  GROWING   UP. 

To  be  alone  in  the  dark  was  the  best  thing  in  the 
world  for  her ;  to  be  alone  in  the  dark  forever.  For 
something  had  happened  to  her  that  had  never  hap 
pened  to  any  girl  before.  With  a  light  tread  she 
went  up  stairs  :  she  would  not  have  her  mother  know 
that  she  had  overheard  the  remark  made  to  her 
father  —  her  mother  could  not  know  all,  only  herself 
and  Don  Mackenzie  knew  her  cruel  secret ;  he  would 
never  tell,  not  even  Eoger,  and  she  could  sooner 
die  than  let  the  words  pass  her  lips  to  any  human 
creature.  Girls  had  gone  through  terrible  things 
before  ;  but  no  girl  ever  had  gone  through  this ;  no 
girl  could,  unless  she  were  like  herself,  and  no  girl 
was  like  herself,  so  impetuous,  so  headlong,  so  frank 
that  frankness  became  a  sin. 

In  her  own  chamber  she  found  the  darkness  and 
solitude  she  craved ;  the  darkness  and  solitude  she 
thought  she  would  crave  forever.  The  voices  in  the 
front  parlor  went  on  low  and  steadily,  planning  a 
best  thing  for  Marion  for  whom  no  best  was  possible- 

"  Yes,  it  will  certainly  be  a  good  thing,"  her  father 
answered  in  a  relieved  tone;  "she  hasn't  been  her 
self  since  Donald  Mackenzie  went  away." 

"  I  was  afraid  when  he  came,"  was  the  low  uttered 
response. 


THE  BEST  THING  IN   THE    WORLD.  69 

"  Mothers  are  always  afraid,"  returned  the  father, 
who  had  urged  his  coming. 

"  But  I  was  specially  afraid ;  Don  is  so  attractive, 
so  unconscious  of  himself,  and  I  know  Marion  well 
enough  to  know  that  she  would  make  an  ideal  of 
him—" 

"  Nonsense,"  was  the  sharp  interruption. 

"It  may  be  nonsense,  but  it  is  true;  it  has 
proved  true.  Marion  is  imaginative,  as  I  was  at  her 
age :  I  know  how  I  idealized  you  — " 

"And  the  reality  of  me  broke  your  heart,"  he  said, 
with  a  light,  fond  laugh. 

"  Yes.  Sometimes  it  did.  But  I  lived  through  it 
and  learned  that  you  were  human,  and  deliciously 
human,  and,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  say  so,  a  great 
improvement  on  my  girlish  ideal." 

"  At  any  rate,  I  was  not  afraid  to  let  you  try,"  he 
answered ;  "  but  Don  has  gone  without  giving  her  the 
trial.  I  suspect  he  saw  it  and  went." 

"  I  know  he  did,"  said  Marion's  mother. 

"  Does  Eoger  know  it  ?  "  asked  Marion's  father. 

"  Eoger  always  knows  everything  and  looks  as  if 
he  knew  nothing,"  replied  the  motherly  voice;"! 
think  he  was  relieved  when  Don  went  away/' 


70  GROWING   UP. 

"You  think  she  will  soon  get  over  it?"  her  father 
asked.  It  would  have  broken  Marion's  heart  to  hear 
the  solicitude  in  her  father's  voice. 

"I'm  afraid  there's  no  'over  it'  for  a  girl  like 
her ;  but  she  is  plucky  enough  to  get  through  it ; 
the  worst  of  it  is,  Don  is  such  a  fine  fellow." 

"He  had  no  right  to  care  for  her — "  her  father 
began  angrily. 

"  He  couldn't  help  that,"  argued  her  mother. 

"  Then  he  should  care  more,  and  be  a  man,  and 
speak  his  mind — " 

"  I  think  he  must  care  for  some  one  else ;  if  he 
hadn't  he  couldn't  resist  Marion." 

"  Marion  is  like  other  girls,"  said  Marion's  father 
impatiently  ;  "not  a  whit  prettier — " 

"  No,  not  prettier,"  she  assented,  with  protest  in 
her  tone. 

"  Or  more  accomplished,"  he  insisted. 

"  She  hasn't  accomplishments,  beside  her  fine 
education,  and  music  —  " 

"  All  girls  play,  I  suppose  he  sees  other  girls  —  " 

"And  she  saw  but  one  man.  That  was  the 
trouble.  I  wonder  how  fathers  and  mothers  can 
help  that  Roger  wanted  him  to  come  to  board 


THE  BEST  THING  IN  THE   WORLD.          71 

through  the  winter,  said  a  boarding-house  was  dis 
mal,  and  his  mother  had  just  died  —  well,  we  can't 
help  it  now.  Don  has  cared  for  all  the  children  — 
he  was  great  friends  with  Maurice  and  John,  If 
she  will  go  to  Bensalem  and  keep  house  for  Roger, 
it  will  be  just  the  thing." 

"  I  think  so  myself,"  he  answered,  reasonably. 

"  Roger  will  be  only  too  happy ;  his  sister  Marion 
has  always  been  his  sweetheart." 

"Bensalem  will  do,"  replied  her  father,  hopefully, 
shifting  all  his  responsibility ;  "  when  we  visit  them 
next  summer  she  will  be  as  rosy  as  ever  and  singing 
about  the  house  like  a  bird." 

"Then  Roger  must  accept  that  call,"  decided 
Roger's  mother  positively.  "A  year  in  the  country 
will  brush  off  his  student  ways  —  it  will  be  the  best 
thing  in  the  world  for  both  of  them." 

"And  poor  Bensalem  ? " 

"  It  isn't  poor  Bensalem,"  she  retorted,  indignantly. 
"They  knew  what  they  wanted  when  they  called 
Roger." 

"  Roger  is  a  good  boy,  but  he  isn't  the  least  bit 
brilliant,"  said  Roger's  father,  cheerfully. 

"He  is  something  better,"  said  Roger's  mother. 


72  GROWING   UP. 

"  But  how  can  you  get  along  without  her  ?  " 
"  Better  than  Roger  can.     Besides,  Martha  and 
Lou  will  soon  be  through  school;  Eoger  and  Marion 
are  not  our  only  children." 

"  You  talk  as  though  they  were,  sometimes,"  he 
retorted.  "  Anyhow,  let  the  sky  fall,  but  do  some 
thing  for  Marion." 


A  SMALL  D1SVIPLE.  73 


vn. 

A   SMALL    DISCIPLE. 

"  Who  comes  to  God  an  inch  through  doubtings  dim, 
la  blazing  light  God  will  advance  a  mile  to  him." 

From  the  Persian. 

AUNT  RODY  gave  Judith  a  nudge.  The  nudge 
startled  the  absorbed  reader  into  dropping,  with  a 
thud,  the  book  she  held  in  her  hand  upon  the  carpeted 
floor  of  the  pew;  with  a  crimsoned  face  Judith 
stooped  and  picked  up  the  book ;  after  a  moment  of 
deliberation  and  a  defiant  flash  toward  Aunt  Body, 
stiff  and  straight  in  the  end  of  the  pew,  she  re-opened 
her  book  and  was  again  lost  in  the  fascinating  story. 
Aunt  Rody  glared  at  her,  but  she  turned  a  page, 
only  half  conscious  of  the  wrath  that  was  being 
heaped  up  against  her;  this  time  it  was  not  a 
nudge,  but  a  large  hand  that  startled  her ;  the  large 
hand,  brown,  strong,  was  laid  across  the  page. 

Judith  gave  a  glance,  not  defiant,  into  the  kindly, 


74  GROWING   UP. 

grave  eyes,  then  shut  the  book,  straightened  herself 
and  tried  hard  to  listen  to  the  minister. 

The  figure  at  the  other  end  of  the  pew,  the  man's 
figure,  settled  back  comfortably  to  listen,  and 
listened  without  trying  hard. 

The  kindly,  grave  eyes  under  the  shaggy  black 
brows  never  stirred  from  the  minister's  face ;  once 
in  a  while  the  brown,  strong  hand  stroked  the  long 
white  beard;  Judith  watched  him  as  he  listened, 
and  then  she  watched  Aunt  Eody,  unbending,  alert, 
with  her  deep-set  black  eyes,  her  hard-working  hands 
very  still  in  her  new,  black  kid  gloves. 

When  the  sermon  was  ended  Judith  gave  a  sigh 
of  relief;  she  could  sit  still,  she  had  sat  still;  but 
her  mind  had  not  followed  the  minister. 

She  wished  she  could  like  sermons.  She  liked 
the  Bible.  This  sermon  was  not  like  the  Bible. 

As  she  stood  in  the  church  doorway,  waiting  for 
Aunt  Rody,  who  always  had  something  to  tell,  or 
something  to  ask  in  the  crowd  in  the  aisle,  she 
overheard  a  loud  whisper  behind  her:  "Oh,  that's 
Judith  Mackenzie.  She  has  come  to  stay  with  the 
Sparrow  girls.  Her  mother  was  their  niece.  Father 
died  long  ago;  mother  last  winter."  To  escape 


A  SMALL  DISCIPLE.  75 

further  details,  the  listener  stepped  forward  and 
down  one  step ;  there  was  a  stir  and  some  one  stood 
beside  her,  a  tall  young  man,  not  like  any  one  else 
in  Bensalem :  she  knew  without  raising  her  eyes  that 
he  was  the  new  minister.  She  flushed,  thinking 
that  he  had  noticed  that  she  was  reading  her  Sunday 
School  book  in  church. 

"Would  you  like  to  be  a  Christian?"  he  asked, 
with  something  in  his  tone  that  made  it  hard  for 
her  to  keep  the  tears  back. 

This  was  worse  than  a  rebuke  for  reading;  she 
might  have  excused  herself  for  that;  for  this  she 
had  no  words.  The  voice  was  very  low;  perhaps 
no  one  heard  beside  herself. 

Too  startled  to  speak  at  first,  she  kept  silent ;  then, 
too  truthful  to  speak  one  word  that  she  was  not 
sure  was  true,  and  thinking  that  she  hardly  knew 
what  it  was  to  be  a  Christian,  she  could  not  say 
"  Yes  " ;  not  daring  to  say  "  No,"  she  stood  silent. 

"  Pray  for  the  Holy  Spirit,"  he  said,  moving  away. 

She  knew  how  to  pray;  she  had  prayed  all  her 
life;  but  she  had  never  once  prayed  for  the  Holy 
Spirit.  She  was  afraid  to  do  that. 

What  would  happen  to  her  if  she  did,  she  wondered, 


76  GROWING  UP. 

as  she  walked  down  the  paved  path  to  the  gate; 
would  a  tongue  of  flame  come  down  from  heaven 
and  settle  on  her  head  ?  Would  she  speak  with 
tongues,  right  there,  before  them  all,  in  the  crowd  ? 
Would  she  heal  the  sick  by  prayer  and  anointing 
with  oil  ?  Would  she  pray  in  prayer-meeting,  and 
go  about  from  house  to  house  talking  about  the 
Lord  Jesus,  whose  dear,  sacred  name  she  seldom 
took  upon  her  lips  ? 

What  a  strange  thing  to  say  to  a  girl  of  thirteen ! 

There  were  no  young  disciples  in  the  Bible ;  they 
were  all  grown  up  and  old. 

Just  now  all  she  wanted  to  do  was  to  tell  Jesus 
and  his  Father  everything  that  troubled  her,  and 
everything  she  was  glad  of,  and  read  the  Bible, 
and,  —  "Come  Judith,"  interrupted  Aunt  Body's 
shrill  voice.  She  sat  on  the  back  seat  of  the  carriage 
with  Aunt  Body ;  Mr.  Brush  sat  alone  on  the  front 
seat;  Aunt  Affy  had  not  come  to  church  to-day;  it 
was  her  turn  to  stay  at  home. 

Aunt  Body  insisted  that  some  one  should  always 
stay  at  home ;  there  was  the  silver,  and  her  will, 
and  a  great  many  other  things  to  be  guarded  from 
Sunday  marauders. 


A  SMALL  DISCIPLE.  77 

A 

Judith   Grey  Mackenzie,"  began  Aunt  Kody,  in 

her  most  revengeful  voice,  "You  must  behave  in 
church  or  stay  at  home." 

"  I  was  behaving  —  I  read  to  help  behave ;  when 
I  cannot  understand  I  think  everyday  thoughts; 
isn't  that  worse  than  reading  ? " 

"  Nothing  is  so  bad  behaved  as  reading.  And  all 
the  folks  seeing  you.  What  do  you  suppose  the 
new  minister  thinks  of  you  ? " 

" He  thinks  I  am  not—" 

Her  shy  lips  could  not  frame  the  words  "a 
Christian." 

"  Not  very  well  brought  up,"  tartly  finished  Aunt 
Rody. 

"I  brought  myself  up,  that's  the  reason  then," 
replied  Judith,  her  eyes  filling  with  resentful  tears. 
"Mother  was  always  too  sick.  Cousin  Don  said 
my  mother  was  the  sweetest  mother  in  the  world." 

"You  act  like  a  sick  mother;  but  you've  got  an 
aunt  that  isn't  sick;  and  if  I  ever  see  you  read 
again  in  church  you  shall  not  go  to  church  for  six 
months.  Tell  your  Jousin  Don  that." 

"  I  wouldn't  mind  church,"  replied  Judith. 

"  To  Sunday  School  then,  if  that  hurts  more." 


78  GROWING  UP. 

"Oh,  tut,  tut,"  came  good  humoredly  from  the 
front  seat.  "Don't  forget  your  own  young  days 
Body." 

"I  never  had  any.  Just  as  I  shall  never  have 
any  old  age.  I've  never  had  time  to  be  young  or 
old." 

Judith  laughed.  Aunt  Rody  was  eighty-four 
years  old. 

"Don't  you  deceive  me  about  the  book,  Judith, 
for  I  don't  always  go  to  church." 

"Aunt  Rody,"  with  girlish  dignity,  "I  never 
deceived  any  one  in  my  life." 

"That's  a  good  deal  to  say." 

"  I  haven't  lived  to  be  eighty-four,  but  I  think  I 
never  shall  deceive.  I  would  rather  die  than  not 
be  true,"  she  burst  out 

"  H'm,  you  haven't  been  tried." 

Judith  thought  she  had ;  did  not  this  grim,  hard 
old  woman  try  her  every  day  of  her  life  ? 

The  long  village  street  was  lined  with  maples  and 
locusts ;  inside  the  yards  were  horse-chestnut  trees, 
lilacs,  and  syruigas. 

All  over  the  beautiful  country  the  fruit  trees  were 
in  blossom;  Judith  revelled  in  the  fragrance  and 


A  SMALL  DISCIPLE.  75 

delicate  tints  of  the  apple-blossom ;  she  called  it  her 
apple-blossom  spring. 

The  story  and  a  half  red  farmhouse,  with  its 
slanting  roof  and  long  piazza,  marked  the  "Sparrow 
place  " ;  it  had  been  the  Sparrow  place  one  hundred 
and  fifty  years.  The  red  farmhouse  was  built  one  hun 
dred  years  ago  ;  the  Sparrow  girls,  the  eight  sisters, 
were  all  born  there  long  before  many  of  the  village 
people  could  remember. 

As  Judith  stepped  up  on  the  piazza  the  bowed 
gray  head  at  the  window  was  lifted ;  the  girl  went 
to  the  open  window  and  stood  ;  Aunt  Any  took  off 
her  spectacles  and  laid  them  in  the  book  she  was 
reading. 

Judith  thought  Aunt  Affy  read  but  one  book. 
How  could  anyone  be  wise  and  read  only  one  book  ? 

"  Well,  dear,"  said  Aunt  Affy  in  her  welcoming 
tones.  To  Aunt  Affy  Judith  Grey  Mackenzie  was 
the  sweetest  picture  of  girlhood  in  all  the  world ; 
she  was  as  fresh  as  the  dew,  tinted  like  an  apple- 
blossom,  as  natural  as  a  wild  rose.  To  everyone 
else  she  was  a  girl  of  thirteen,  with  the  faults,  the 
forgetfulness,  the  impetuosity,  the  thoughtlessnesSj 
and  above  all,  the  selfishness  of  girlhood.  Her  yel- 


80  GBOWHfG  UP. 

low  hair  fell  in  long  cods  to  her  waist,  because  her 
mother  had  lored  it  so;  her  ejes  of  deepest  bine  were 
frank  and  troth-telling;  in  her  ftps,  flexible,  yet 
strong,  was  revealed  a  world  of  loving;  a  world  that 
she  had  not  vet 


She  was  impatient,  pa  MOTH  It1,  rebellious;  hot 
newer  was  it  in  face,  voice,  or  attitude  when  under 
the  wihclmy  of  Aunt  Ally's  appreciation. 

"Aunt  Afry,  I've  been  wicked,"  she  cnnfrmniil  in  a 
humiliated  voioe. 

•So  have  L  Fve  been  sitting  here  grumbling, 
when  I  should  be  the  happiest  old  sinner  in  the 
world." 

"Fve  been  wickeder  than  thsL" 

'How  much  wickeder?" 

-I  borrowed  a  Sunday-school  book  to  take  to 
^i»iiTy»j  because  1  do  not  o  ******!  utano  fHf-  JLenney. 

-  Did  that  help  TOO  understand  him?* 

-I  did  try  at  fast,"  Judith  erpJahmd,  lathing  at 
Aunt  Affy*s  seuuus  o^nestxon,  "but  it  was  alxiat  the 
tliiiy  in  Bevelatkn,  the  hard  thing*  —  * 

'Did  he  not  say  anything  janamU  vndenttnd?" 

'So  —  '  <c"i  Judith,  thinking  that  his  larnnifcr 
to  her,  her  own  private  message,  was  tiia  hardest  of 
all  to 


A  SMALL  D18CIPLM.  81 

"  You  were  very  rude . " 

"How  was  it  rode?"  Judith  questioned,  sur 
prised 

"He  was  speaking  to  you, and  you  refused  to 
listen." 

"I  was  listening  to  someone  else,0  said  Judith, 
troubled. 

"That  was  more  rode  stflL  That  was  premedi 
tated  rudeness." 

"I  hope  he  did  not  notice  it" 

"  Ton  may  trust  him  for  that* 

"But  I  cannot  tell  him  I  am  sorry;  it  would 
choke  me  to  death." 

"  And  another  thing — if  he  is  Christ's  ambassa 
dor,  and  yon  refused  to  listen — " 

The  girl's  eyes  filled,  and  her  lips  trembled;  was 
it  that  she  had  done  ? 

"It's  time  to  set  the  table,"  were  Aunt  Ally's 
next  words,  in  an  unconcerned  tone,  polishing  her 
glasses  with  a  corner  of  her  white  apron.  That 
small, clean  old  kitchen;  how  Judith  loved  it.  She 
loved  every  kind  of  work  that  was  done  in  it,  even 
the  wash-tubs,  the  smell  of  the  suds  was  exhflarat- 
fmr  and  halcfng  and  ironing  days  were  her 


82  GROWING  UP. 

Every  nerve  and  muscle  responded  to  the  call  to 
labor. 

The  south  door  opened  on  a  flagged  walk  that  led 
to  Aunt  Affy's  flower  garden,  the  north  door  led 
you  out  into  a  deep,  square,  grassy  yard,  where  the 
clothes  were  hung  and  bleached ;  a  tall,  shaggy  pine 
stood  sentinel  at  one  side  of  the  door,  on  the  other 
side  ran  the  bench  upon  which  the  milk-pans  shone 
in  a  row ;  beyond  the  grass  rose  a  stone  wall,  and 
then  there  were  fields  and  woods ;  woods  in  which 
the  thrush  hid,  and  the  whip-poor-will;  a  brook 
started  from  a  spring  in  the  woods  and  tumbled  over 
the  pebbles  down  into  the  meadows,  then  out,  below 
the  flower  garden  and  across  the  road,  where  it  was 
bridged  with  a  stone  arch. 

In  the  kitchen  was  a  brick  oven,  its  iron  door 
stood  out  black  among  the  white-washed  bricks ; 
the  uneven  boards  of  the  kitchen  were  always 
scrubbed  clean,  the  stove  was  brushed  into  a  shin 
ing  blackness  every  day,  the  two  tables  were  as 
spotless  as  sand,  the  scrubbing-brush  and  Aunt 
Affy's  strong  hands  could  make  them. 

Out  of  the  three  windows  were  pictures  of  which 
the  city-bred  girl  never  wearied.  Her  apple-blossom 
spring  was  the  spring  of  her  new  birth. 


A  SMALL  DISCIPLE.  83 

"Aunt  Body,  please  excuse  me,"  Judith  said,  ris 
ing  from  the  dinner  table. 

"  You  haven't  eaten  your  custard,  and  you  like  it 
with  crab-apple  jelly." 

The  yellow  custard  in  the  big  coffee-cup  with  a 
broken  handle,  and  the  generous  spoonful  of  jelly 
quivering  on  top  was  a  temptation ;  she  looked  at 
it,  then  pushed  it  away.  Nobody  would  ever  know 
that  she  was  punishing  herself  for  being  "  rude  "  in 
church;  it  was  easier  to  punish  herself  than  to 
apologize  to  Mr.  Kenney ;  and  something  had  to  be 
done. 

"  I  want  to  study  my  Sunday-school  lesson,"  she 
evaded,  and  then  her  heart  sank  at  her  deception 
she  had  not  told  Aunt  Eody  all  the  truth. 

She  fled  into  the  parlor  with  a  question  from 
Aunt  Body  pursuing  her ;  her  cheeks  were  burning, 
and  she  was  trembling  with  shame  and  anger. 

Why  couldn't  Aunt  Eody  leave  her  alone  ?  Some 
times  she  almost  hated  Aunt  Body.  A  corner  of  the 
stiff,  long,  horse-hair  sofa  was  her  retreat;  it  was 
often  her  retreat;  she  called  it  her  valley  of  humili 
ation. 

In  her  lesson  to-day  she  found  the  loveliest  thing. 


84  GROWING   UP. 

Aunt  Affy  was  teaching  her  that  the  Bible  was  a 
treasure-house. 

"  By  this  shall  all  men  know  that  ye  are  my  dis 
ciples,  if  ye  have  love  one  to  another." 

All  men  know  —  just  by  loving  —  not  by  doing 
any  great  hard  thing  —  by  loving  —  but  that  was 
hard,  if  it  meant  bearing  with  Aunt  Body's  misun 
derstanding  and  sharpness  and  fault-finding,  and 
being  always  on  the  watch  to  find  evil  in  you. 

But  "  all  men  know  "  was  the  comfort  of  it ;  she 
need  not  pray  in  prayer  meeting  as  Miss  Kenney 
did,  npr  do  the  wonderful  things  the  disciples  did ; 
all  men  would  know  that  she  wanted  to  be  a 
Christian,  if  she  tried  to  be  loving. 

She  repeated  the  words  of  Christ  in  a  soft  mono 
tone,  her  small  Bible  in  her  hand,  and   her    head 
pillowed  on  her  hair  on  the  hard  sofa-arm, 
i      Aunt  Affy    pushed  the  door  wider  and  entered, 
bringing  a  glass  half  filled  with  crab-apple  jelly. 

"  I  saved  your  custard  —  it's  on  the  hanging  shelf 
in  the  cellar,"  she  said,  opening  the  door  of  the 
chimney  cupboard  to  set  the  glass  in  its  own  space 
in  the  row  of  jelly  glasses. 

"Aunt  Affy,"  lifting  her  tumbled  head,  and  with 


A   SMALL  DISCIPLE.  85 

grave  eyes  asking  her  question :  "  what  is  —  who  is 
a  disciple  ?  " 

"  A  disciple  is  one  who  learns.  You  are  my  dis 
ciple  when  you  learn  of  me.  The  disciple  of  Christ 
is  the  man,  or  woman,  or  child  who  learns  of  him. 
When  you  are  about  the  farm  with  Cephas,  you  are 
his  disciple,  in  sewing  and  mending  you  are  Aunt 
Eody's,  in  housekeeping  generally  you  are  my  dis 
ciple." 

Aunt  Affy  went  out,  and  the  tumbled  head 
dropped  back  to  the  hard  sofa-arm  again.  Would 
Christ  let  her  be  a  "  disciple  "  a  little  while,  and  then 
be  a  Christian  when  she  grew  up,  she  pondered. 

She  wanted  to  learn  of  him ;  she  would  read  the 
Gospels  through  and  through  and  through.  She 
would  learn  them  by  heart.  For  her  lesson  to-day 
she  would  learn  these  seven  verses  he  had  spoken 
to  his  own,  real,  grown-up  disciples. 

That  afternoon  in  Sunday-school,  after  the  lesson 
was  ended,  the  new  minister  left  his  class  of  boys 
and  came  to  the  pulpit  stairs  and  stood  and  talked 
to  the  children ;  his  opening  sentence  thrilled  one 
small  listener: — 

"  The  disciples  were  called  Christians  first  at 
Antioch/' 


86  GROWING   UP. 

If  you  were  a  disciple,  only  a  disciple,  learning 
and  loving,  you  were  called  a  Christian.  Then  he 
spoke  of  the  Holy  Spirit ;  he  was  the  very  heart  and 
will  of  Christ;  he  spoke  in  a  low,  sweet  voice  to 
children,  a  constraining  voice,  making  known  the 
things  Christ  the  Lord  would  have  them  do;  he 
showed  them  the  things  of  Christ. 

Had  she  dared  she  would  have  stepped  out  of 
her  pew  and  gone  up  the  aisle  to  the  new  minister 
and  told  him  that  she  did  want  to  be  a  Christian, 
and  she  would  not  be  afraid  to  ask  the  Holy  Spirit 
to  tell  her  all  the  things  Christ  wanted  her  to  do. 
Miss  Kenney,  her  teacher  and  the  minister's  sister, 
noticed  the  start  and  flush,  the  hesitancy,  the  eager 
look,  as  the  minister  came  down  the  aisle  and  paused 
to  speak  to  her  girls ;  she  saw  Judith's  eyes  drop  as 
he  took  her  hand,  and  then  her  shy  withdrawal  of 
herself. 

Suddenly  the  girl  turned,  and  with  the  flash  of 
decision  in  her  voice,  said  bravely,  detaining  the 
minister  with  her  trembling  little  hand: — 

"I  am  sorry  I  read  in  church  this  morning;  I  will 
never  do  it  again,  even  if  I  don't  understand.  Please 
excuse  me." 


A  SMALL  DISCIPLE.  87 

"  I  saw  you,"  he  said,  smiling,  and  taking  the 
brave  little  hand  into  both  his  own;  "I  will  try  to 
talk  to  you  next  Sunday.  Thank  you  for  the  les 
son." 

Then  shy  Judith  slipped  away,  and  never  told 
even  Aunt  Affy  that  she  had  apologized  to  the  nev 
minister. 

That  evening  in  the  twilight,  sitting  on  the  piazza 
alone,  she  wrote  on  the  fly-leaf  of  her  small  Bible,  in 
pencil :  — 

Judith  Grey  Mackenzie ;  A  Disciple. 

And  the  date,  May  15,  18 — . 

She  thought  she  would  like  to  tell  somebody  that 
she  was  a  disciple.  But  if  they  should  ask  how  it 
happened,  she  could  not  tell.  It  had  happened  as 
still  as  a  leaf  fluttering  in  the  wind,  as  softly  as  the 
apple-blossoms  came ;  nobody  could  tell  about  that. 
She  thought  the  Holy  Spirit  must  know  how  it 
happened. 


ss  GaowufQ  UP. 


vra. 

THIS  WAY,  OE  THAT  WAY? 

"  My  times  are  in  Thy  band,  and  Thou 
Wilt  guide  my  footsteps  at  Thy  will." 

IT  was  six  o'clock  that  May  evening,  and  Joe  was 
running  away.  He  did  not  know  he  was  running 
away.  He  had  never  been  taught  to  read,  and  no 
one  had  ever  told  him  a  story,  and  his  own  ex 
perience  of  life  was  so  limited,  that  he  did  not  know 
that  he  was  starting  out  in  the  world  to  find  adven 
tures,  to  find  good  or  evil,  to  find  a  new  life,  and 
that  new  life,  shaped  more  by  what  was  inside  of 
himself,  than  what  was  outside  of  himself.  If  the 
man  who  just  passed  him  had  asked  him  what  he 
was  doing,  he  would  have  said,  had  he  not  been 
overcome  by  one  of  his  fits  of  shyness,  that  he  was 
"gittin'  out." 

The  air  was  damp,  and  sweet  with  the  scent  of 
blossoms.  At  his  right  ran  a  range  of  low  hills, 


THIS   WAY,  OR  TSAT  WAY?  8$ 

abrupt  and  green ;  at  his  left,  as  far  as  he  could  see, 
stretched  the  swamp,  miles  of  meadow,  over-flooded 
in  the  spring,  waving  with  grass  in  the  summer,  and 
homely  with  unpainted  one-story  houses,  and  out 
buildings  in  various  stages  of  decay ;  it  was  a  pas 
ture  land  for  the  cattle  of  the  farmers  in  the  upland 
district,  and  Joe's  bare  feet  had  trodden  its  miles 
morning  and  night  ever  since  he  had  been  old  enough 
to  drive  the  cows. 

He  went  on  slowly,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
too  heavy-hearted  to  whistle,  not  thinking  about 
anything,  only  feeling,  with  something  in  his  throat 
that  would  not  be  swallowed  down,  miserable  and 
defiant;  remembering  nothing  in  his  past  to  regret 
not  having  learned  that  there  was  anything  in  his 
future  to  hope  for,  he  was  conscious  only  of  some 
thing  stirring  within,  stirring  to  action,  to  wideness, 
to  freedom,  and  therefore  he  must  "  git  out "  to  find 
it ;  therefore  he  was  getting  out. 

His  plan,  if  he  had  a  plan,  was  to  find  a  woman 
in  the  village  who  had  once  spoken  kindly  to  him, 
and  given  him  a  huge  slice  of  warm  bread  and  but 
ter;  in  the  swamp  he  knew  he  might  find  work 
among  the  Germans,  but  the  swamp  was  so  lonely 


90  GROWING  UP. 

at  night,  and  he  did  not  like  the  ways  of  the  Ger 
mans  ;  in  all  the  world  he  had  but  one  friend,  this 
woman  who  had  spoken  kindly  to  him. 

She  might  not  give  him  work,  or  a  bed,  but  she 
would  look  at  him,  as  no  one  else  ever  looked,  and 
she  would  speak  kindly.  The  road  over  the  hill 
drew  his  lagging  feet,  then  he  stood,  hesitating,  at 
the  turn  of  the  hill  road  and  swamp  road ;  the  hill 
road  led  to  people,  and  a  church,  a  store,  where 
boys  and  men  gathered  at  night  to  read  the  newspa 
per,  and  smoke,  and  have  fun;  to  the  blacksmith's 
shop,  and,  most  of  all,  to  the  little  house  next  door, 
where  the  woman  lived  who  had  cut  that  large 
slice  across  her  big,  hot  loaf. 

A  German,  in  the  swamp,  had  told  him  to  come 
to  him  for  a  home  and  work,  if  he  ever  wanted  to 
leave  his  place ;  work  he  must,  and  a  home  —  the 
woman's  face  came  between  him  and  the  German, 
his  heart  began  to  beat  very  fast,  he  wondered  why 
his  heart  beat  so  fast  sometimes,  and  he  took  his  life 
in  his  hands,  and  started  on  a  run  for  the  road  over 
the  hill,  where  was  the  only  thing  in  the  world  that 
seemed  like  love,  although  of  love  he  had  never  had 
one  thought  Then  he  began  to  walk  slowly  again ; 


\ 
THIS   WAY,  OB  THAT  WAY?  91 

he  had  decided  there  was  no  need  of  hurrying,  there 
was  no  need  of  doing  anything  —  he  had  never  been 
given  a  reason  for  doing  anything  excepting  that  one 
or  the  other  of  the  old  men  with  whom  he  had  lived 
all  his  remembered  life  bade  him  do  it.  He  had 
done  things  because  he  was  told ;  he  did  not  know 
why,  excepting  that  because  he  was  told. 

If  he  were  being  told  now  to  run  away,  he  did  not 
know ;  he  had  never  thought  that  he  might  tell 
himself  to  do  things.  Not  for  a  moment  did  he  be 
lieve  that  the  two  old  men  would  take  the  trouble 
to  look  for  him,  or  to  wish  him  back ;  every  day, 
one,  or  both,  said  to  each  other  or  to  him  that  he 
was  not  worth  his  salt,  and  would  never  amount  to 
anything ;  they  must  be  glad  he  was  gone.  But  the 
cows.  They  would  be  sorry,  especially  Beauty ;  one 
of  the  old  men  would  milk  her  to-night,  but  they 
would  not  pat  her  and  talk  to  her,  and  ask  her  if 
she  were  glad  she  was  a  cow  and  not  a  boy,  and  was 
worth  her  salt,  and  all  her  feed  beside ;  she  had  no 
friend  but  him,  and  she  would  look  around  for  him 
with  her  big  eyes;  again  he  stood  hesitating  — 
Beauty  wanted  him  —  his  tears  fell  fast ;  but  he 
must  go  on,  he  wanted  something  better  than  Beauty. 


92  GROWING   UP. 

So  he  went  on  down  the  hill,  past  the  pretty  parson 
age  and  the  church  —  wondering,  if  he  had  no  place 
to  sleep,  if  he  might  sleep  in  the  church ;  then  past 
the  school-house,  with  its  large  play-ground,  and 
turned  by  the  liberty-pole,  and  walked  very  slowly 
along  the  street  until  he  reached  the  blacksmith's 
shop,  and  there,  in  the  doorway  of  the  small  house, 
stood  the  woman  looking  for  him. 

"  Why,  Joe,  what  are  you  doing  here  at  milking 
time  ? "  she  asked  in  a  brisk  tone,  as  the  boy  stopped 
before  the  gate. 

"  I'm  done  milking  for  them  two  old  men,"  he 
said,  in  a  voice  he  tried  hard  to  make  brave.  Chris 
and  Sam  don't  want  me  any  longer ;  I'm  gittin'  out." 
And  then,  big  boy  as  he  was,  feeling  lost  in  a  strange 
world,  he  began  to  cry. 

"  There  !  there !  Sonny,"  soothed  the  voice,  chang 
ing  from  its  briskness  into  sympathy,  as  the  woman 
stepped  down  the  three  steps ;  "  Come  and  eat  sup 
per  with  me ;  I  know  what  I'll  do  with  you.  I'm 
glad  you  happened  to  come  along  this  way." 

Pushing  open  the  gate,  she  laid  her  hand  on  his 
arm  and  drew  him  into  the  house  by  his  soiled  and 
ragged  sleeve. 


THIS   WAY,  OB  THAT  WAT?  93 

"We  don't  want  a  boy,  haven't  work  enough  ;  but 
I  know  somebody  who  does,  late  in  the  season  as  it 
is.  Mr.  Brush,  Mr.  Cephas  Brush,  he  farms  the 
Sparrow  place,  you  know ;  while  he  was  waiting  at 
the  shop  this  very  morning,  he  came  to  the  well  for 
a  drink,  and  I  went  out  to  give  him  a  glass  so  he 
needn't  drink  out  of  that  rusty  tin  cup,  and  he  asked 
me  if  I  knew  where  he  could  find  a  boy.  His  boy 
went  off  in  March.  He's  a  good  master,  and  that's 
a  good  home ;  Miss  Affy  is  like  a  mother  to  every 
stray  thing  and  you  won't  mind  if  Miss  Rody  does 
scold,  she  never  means  any  harm.  I'll  take  you 
down  there  right  after  supper.  Mr.  Evans  had  his 
early  because  he  wanted  to  go  to  town,  and  I  was 
feeding  my  chickens,  two  hundred  and  five  now, 
—  Nettie  puts  down  every  new  brood  in  a  book  — 
and  couldn't  stop  to  eat.  I  didn't  think  I  was  going 
to  have  company  for  supper.  Nettie  had  hers 
earlier  than  usual  because  she  was  tired,  and  wanted 
to  go  to  bed."  She  pulled  him  through  the  narrow 
hall  as  she  talked,  Joe,  once  in  a  while,  giving  a 
quick,  hard  sob,  and  opened  the  door  into  the  tiny 
kitchen. 

The  tea-kettle  on  the  stove  was  singing  a  cheery 


94  GROWING  UP. 

welcome,  the  white  cloth  and  pink  dishes  on  the 
round  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room  gave  him 
another  welcome,  and  the  touch  and  tone  of  the 
woman  who  had  been  kind  to  him  brought  him  the 
cheeriest  welcome  of  all,  as  she  pushed  him  down 
into  the  chair  opposite  her  own  at  the  table,  saying : 
"  I  know  what  men's  cooking  is,  and  I  know  you  are 
half-starved.  Who  made  the  bread  ? " 

"  I  got  that  at  the  store." 

"  You  had  potatoes,  of  course." 

"  Oh,  yes,  and  fried  pork,  lots  of  it,  and  pan-cakes. 
My  !  can't  Chris  make  good  pan-cakes  ! " 

"  Can  he  ? "  inquired  Mrs.  Evans,  doubtfully,  tak 
ing  the  tea-pot  off  the  stove  and  setting  it  on  the 
table. 

"Now,  here's  hot  fried  potatoes  for  you,  and  good 
bread  and  butter,  and  a  big  saucer  of  rice  pudding 
—  Mr.  Evans  is  never  tired  of  rice  pudding,  —  and 
sponge  cake  that  little  Judith  brought  to  Nettie  to 
day  because  it  is  her  own  baking.  Nettie  took  a 
bite  and  said  I  must  put  the  rest  on  the  supper- 
table.  And  you  can  have  tea  or  milk,  or  both." 

After  bustling  about  in  the  shed,  Mrs.  Evans 
seated  herself  at  the  table  opposite  her  guest. 


THIS  WAT,   OB   THAT  WATf  95 

"Who  would  have  thought  I  was  going  to  eat 
supper  with  you,  Joe  ?  The  world  does  turn  on  its 
axis  once  every  twenty-four  hours,  and  unexpected 
things  do  happen.  I'll  tell  Nettie  all  about  it  to 
morrow  ;  it  will  make  a  happening  in  her  poor  little 
life." 

Joe  gave  her  a  shy,  quick  glance,  then  bowed  his 
head  ;  some  time,  somewhere,  not  with  the  old  men, 
certainly,  he  had  bowed  his  head  and  said  something 
at  the  table ;  he  did  not  remember  where  it  was,  or 
what  words  he  said,  or  why  he  said  anything  at  all, 
but  the  pretty  tea-table,  or  the  savory  food  reminded 
him  of  a  life  he  had  once  lived ;  he  listened  for  a 
chorus  of  voices  :  — 

"  For  what  we  are  about  to  receive  —  receive  — 
truly  thankful." 

It  was  like  music  in  the  boy's  heart ;  he  lifted  his 
head  with  a  light  shining  in  his  tear-blurred  eyes. 

"  Well,  I  never,"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Evans. 

The  boy  held  his  knife  and  fork  with  a  grace  her 
husband  had  not  acquired,  taking  his  food  as  slowly 
and  daintily  as  a  girl. 

"  Those  Tucker  men,  that  old  Chris  and  Sam  have 
no  claim  on  you,  and  they  haven't  done  as  well  by 


96  GROWING  UP. 

you  as  they  promised  they  would  when  they  took 
you,  a  little  fellow,  out  of  the  Christie  Home.  I've 
often  spoken  to  Mr.  Evans  about  it,  but  he's  so  easy 
going  I  might  as  well  have  talked  to  the  wind.  I 
told  our  new  minister  that  he  must  '  high-way  and 
hedge '  you ;  he  has  noticed  you ;  but  he  is  feeling 
his  way  among  the  people,  and  couldn't  make  a  stir 
as  soon  as  he  came." 

"  Is  that  where  I  was  ? "  asked  astonished  Joe. 
"  I  thought  I  used  to  be  somewhere.  They  never 
told  me.  I  seem  to  remember  things  that  happened 
before  I  can  remember.  They  told  me  that  I  hadn't 
any  father  or  mother,  and  wouldn't  have  any  home 
if  they  had  not  taken  me  in." 

"  People  thought  you  ought  to  be  sent  to  school 
and  Sunday-school,  but  what  is  everybody's  business 
is  nobody's  business.  I'm  glad  enough  you  have 
left  them,  but  you  should  have  told  them  you 
wanted  to  leave." 

"It  wouldn't  have  done  any  good,"  he  muttered 
"  they  wouldn't  have  said  anything." 

"  Now,  I'll  put  out  the  cat,  and  leave  the  table 
standing,  and  bolt  the  shed  door,  and  lock  the  front 
door,  and  put  on  my  things,  and  we'll  be  off.  Nettie 
is  fast  asleep  and  will  never  miss  me." 


THIS   WAY,   OR   THAT    WAY  t  97 

"  I  will  wash  the  dishes  for  you ;  we  put  them  un 
der  the  pump,  then  wipe  them  on  anything." 

"  That  wouldn't  suit  me,  thank  you,"  laughed  Mrs. 
Evans ;  "  you  can  hoe  corn  better  than  wipe  dishes, 
and  Mr.  Brush  has  acres  and  acres  of  corn  to  hoe, 
and  potatoes  too :  he's  making  that  old  Sparrow 
farm  pay." 

Joe  did  not  know  that  he  had  been  lost,  but  he 
began  to  feel  very  much  found. 

"  I'm  glad  you  went  out  to  the  well  with  that 
glass,"  he  said,  as  his  hostess  wrapped  a  shawl  about 
her  shoulders  and  tied  the  blue  ribbons  of  a  blue 
wool  hood  under  her  chin. 

"  I'm  usually  glad  of  kind  things  I  do ;  I  suppose 
that's  one  reason  I  do  them." 

Joe  unlatched  the  gate,  holding  it  open  for  her  to 
pass  through,  then  pushed  it  shut ;  Beauty  and  this 
woman  seemed  to  belong  to  the  same  order  of 
creaturehood ;  the  woman's  eyes  were  like  Beauty's, 
soft,  and  big  and  brown,  and  they  answered  you. 
She  took  his  hand  and  drew  it  under  her  arm  in  a 
sort  of  comradeship,  and  then  they  went  on,  the 
woman  and  the  boy,  to  find  the  gate  that  would 
swing  open  into  a  world  of  which  it  had  never 
entered  the  boy's  heart  to  dream. 


98  GROWING   UP. 

The  gate  was  shut  and  a  man  in  shirt-sleeves  with 
a  pipe  in  his  mouth  was  standing  on  the  mysterious 
and  happy  side  of  it  resting  his  elbows  on  the 
pickets,  and,  attracted  by  voices,  looking  up  the  road 
in  the  starlight  towards  the  two  figures. 

"  You  stay  here,  Joe  — that's  Mr.  Brash.  I'll  tell 
him  all  your  story." 

"  My  story  ? "  repeated  Joe,  in  amazement 

"You  didn't  know  you  had  any,"  she  laughed. 
"Well,  folks  don't  usually  until  it  is  all  lived 
through  I  didn't  know  I  had  any  girlhood  until  I 
married  and  lost  it." 

"  I  haven't  lost  anything,"  said  Joe,  bewildered. 

"No;  and  I  think  you  have  got  something  — 
stand  back,  till  I  call  you." 

She  went  on,  and  Joe  heard  the  two  voices  ex 
change  a  friendly,  "  Good  evening,"  and  then  to  es 
cape  his  "  story  "  climbed  up  the  steep,  green  bank, 
and  waited  under  a  cherry  tree.  Cherry  blossoms 
were  not  as  pretty  as  apple  blossoms,  he  meditated; 
it  was  queer  how  the  blossoms  would  fall  off,  and 
the  hard,  green  fruit  come  —  but  it  always  did,  some 
how. 

He  wished  Mrs.  Evans  would  come  b«ck  and  take 


THIS    WAT,   OR   THAT  WATf  99 

his  hand  again,  making  him  feel  ashamed  and  glad, 
and  say,  "  Joe,  you  are  going  home  with  me.  That 
man  doesn't  want  you,  and  I  do." 

And  there  he  stood,  not  still,  but  first  on  one  bare 
foot,  and  then  on  the  other,  and  then  he  whistled ; 
the  stars  shining  down  through  the  cherry  blossoms 
were  almost  as  kind  as  Beauty's  eyes,  but  they  were 
so  far  off. 

The  low  voices  talked  on  and  on ;  at  last,  to  the 
great  relief  of  the  boy  who  was  waiting  to  know  if 
anybody  in  the  world  wanted  to  own  him,  the  man's 
voice  was  raised  in  a  cheerful :  "  Well,  I'll  see  Mr. 
Chris  Tucker  to-morrow,  and  make  it  right." 

And,  then,  in  her  brisk  way,  Mrs.  Evans  called, 
"  Come,  Joe  ;  it  is  all  right." 

The  barefoot,  ragged  boy  emerged  out  of  the 
shade  of  the  cherry  limbs  and  went,  faint-heartedly 
to  answer  the  call. 

"  Well,  Joe,"  welcomed  the  old  man,  unlatching 
the  gate  and  throwing  it  wide  open,  "  come  in  and 
stay  with  me  awhile.  I  guess  I  want  you  and  you 
want  me." 

But  Joe  begun  to  cry,  and  rub  his  eyes  with  the 
back  of  his  dirty  brown  hand :  "  I  am  sixteen  years 


GROWING   UP. 


old,  and  I  am  a  stump  of  a  thing,  and  will  eat  you 
out  of  house  and  home,  and  shan't  never  amount  to 
much." 

"Tut,  nonsense  !"  exclaimed  the  old  man;  "don't 
you  like  to  work  ?  " 

"  I  never  did  nothing  else  ;  I  don't  like  nothing 
else,"  replied  Joe,  dropping  his  hand,  somewhat  re 
assured. 

"Who  said  you  are  sixteen?  Come  in  and  let 
me  have  a  look  at  you." 

Joe  stepped  inside  the  gate  ;  kind,  strong  hands 
drew  him  within  the  light  that  streamed  from  the 
kitchen  windows  and  open  door. 

"  Good  night,  Joe,"  said  Mrs.  Evans. 

"  Good  night,"  said  Joe. 

He  had  not  learned  how  to  say  "  thank  you." 

"  They  said  so,"  he  replied  to  the  latest  question. 

"Those  men.  The  Tucker  twins.  They  are 
seventy,  and  hale  old  fellows.  I'll  warrant  you  know 
how  to  work.  You  are  not  fourteen.  You  shall  do 
a  boy's  work  and  be  a  boy.  You  may  grow  to  be  as 
tall  as  old  Christopher  himself.  There's  plenty  of 
man-timber  in  you.  Now  come  and  see  what  the 
women-folks  will  say  to  you." 


THIS   WAY,    OR  THAT  WAY?  101 

Joe  shrank  back. 

"  I  thought  I  was  going  to  live  with  you." 

"  And  you  thought  I  lived  alone  like  the  other  old 
men  ?  I'm  a  miserable  old  bachelor,  but  I've  got 
plenty  of  women-folks,  thank  the  Lord." 

A  little  girl  rushed  to  the  door,  and  a  barking 
Scotch  terrier  made  a  spring  at  the  new-comer. 

"Oh,  what  a  dog,"  Joe  exclaimed,  stooping  to 
catch  frisking,  curly  Doodles  into  his  arms.  Home 
sick  for  Mrs.  Evans,  frightened  and  glad,  he  followed 
the  old  man  into  the  kitchen  with  the  curly  dog  in 
his  arms. 

"  Affy,  here's  the  boy  I've  been  looking  for,  and 
you've  been  praying  for,  I've  no  doubt." 

Aunt  Affy  turned  and  looked  at  the  boy :  short, 
stout,  dirty,  ragged,  with  a  shock  of  uncombed  black 
hair,  a  lock  falling  over  his  forehead,  long  black  eye 
lashes  concealed  the  eyes  he  kept  shyly  fixed  upon 
the  curly  bundle  in  his  arms. 

"  What  is  your  name,  dear  ? "  she  inquired. 

Joe  had  never  heard  "  dear  "  before,  but  supposed 
she  must  be  speaking  to  him  ;  he  raised  his  eyes  and 
smiled ;  they  were  shy,  honest  eyes ;  Aunt  Affy 
smiled  too. 


102  GROWING  UP. 

a  I  am  Joe,**  he  said,  pulling  Doodles'  ears. 

"  Do  you  remember  your  father  and  mother  ? " 

"No;  I  don't  remember  nobody  but  Chris  and 
Sam." 

"  Is  your  name  Joseph  ? " 

"  I  don't  know ;  I  never  thought.  I  guess  it's 
Joseph  —  or  Jo  —  no,  now  I  remember  another 
name :  Josiah.  Is  that  a  boy's  name  ? " 

"  A  boy's  name,  and  a  king's  name.  I  am  glad 
your  name  is  Josiah.  I  will  tell  you  about  him 
some  time." 

The  little  girl  stood  near  the  lady,  but  she  did  not 
stare  at  him,  and  Joe  gave  her  glances  now  and 
then  from  under  his  long  lashes  ;  he  would  like  to 
know  her  name,  and  what  she  was  here  for.  A 
man's  fur  cap  covered  the  black  head ;  when  he  left 
the  house,  angry  and  discouraged,  he  had  put  upon 
his  head  the  first  thing  he  seized. 

"  Doodles  hasn't  given  you  time  to  take  your  hat 
off,  Joe,  or  did  you  forget  ? "  suggested  Aunt  Affy's 
unreproachful  voice. 

"  Didn't  forget  it,"  said  Joe,  pulling  it  off  and 
dropping  it  on  the  floor.  "  They  used  to  eat  with 
their  hats  on,  but  I  always  took  mine  off. 


THIS  WAY,  OB  THAT  WAY?  103 

"  I  should  think  you  would,"  exclaimed  indignant 
Judith. 

Joe  put  his  cheek  down  upon  Doodles'  head, 
smoothing  the  sleeping  head  with  his  brown  cheek. 

"  What  is  the  dog's  name  ? "  he  inquired. 

"Doodles,"  answered  Judith,  hastening  to  speak 
to  the  rude,  strange  boy  who  had  traveled  from  an 
unknown  country. 

"  0,  Doodles,  Doodles,  Doodles,"  whispered  Joe,  in 
a  fond  voice,  rubbing  his  cheek  on  the  soft  head. 

"Well,  Joe,  do  you  love  cows  as  well  as  dogs?" 
inquired  Mr.  Brush. 

"Yes,"  said  Joe,  thinking  of  the  cow  that  was 
missing  him  to-night  He  hoped  she  was  asleep 
now.  "  But  I'm  glad  I  found  Doodles." 

"  Now,  Joe,  drop  Doodles,"  said  Aunt  Affy,  "  and 
follow  me  up  these  kitchen  stairs.  I  have  a  room 
ready  for  an  obedient,  truthful,  industrious  boy." 

"  Where  is  he  ? "  asked  Joe,  lifting  his  shaggy 
head. 

They  all  laughed,  and  laughing,  also,  Joe  followed 
the  plump,  sweet-faced  lady  up  the  kitchen  stairs. 


104  GROWING  UP. 


DC. 

THE  FLOWERS  THAT  CAME  TO  THE  WELL. 

"  He  might  have  made  the  earth  bring  forth 
Enough  for  great  and  small, 
The  oak  tree  and  the  cedar  tree, 
And  not  a  flower  at  all."  MARY  Howrrr. 

NETTIE  EVANS  sat  in  her  invalid  chair  leaning  for 
ward  with  her  chin  on  the  window-sill  looking  down 
into  her  father's  untidy  back  yard. 

The  only  pleasant  thing  in  it  was  a  lilac  bush 
that  was  a  marvel  of  beauty  when  it  was  in  bloom, 
but  that  had  faded  many  weary  days  ago,  leaving 
ugly  brown  bunches  where  the  lilacs  had  been ; 
there  were  two  well-worn  paths,  one  leading  to  the 
kitchen  door,  and  the  other  to  the  well,  and  nothing 
besides,  excepting  weeds  with  a  background  of 
apple  orchard.  If  Nettie  had  raised  her  eyes  she 
would  have  seen  woods,  and  hills  and  fields  of  grain, 
a  bit  of  road,  a  wooden  bridge,  and  a  deep  blue  sky 


FLOWERS   THAT  CAME  TO  THE   WELL.    105 

full  of  pufiy,  white  clouds,  but  she  would  not 
raise  her  eyes;  when  her  back  ached  as  it  did 
to-day  she  never  saw  anything  but  the  weeds  in 
the  yard,  especially  those  tall  rag-weeds  growing 
close  around  the  well.  Her  father  had  promised  to 
"  clear  up  "  the  yard  after  planting,  but  planting  had 
come  and  gone,  and  he  was  still  too  busy. 
"Oh,  if  I  were  only  able  to  pull  weeds,"  she 


It  was  a  very  gentle  sigh,  she  was  not  strong 
enough  to  sigh  heavily.  Three  years  ago  she  could 
shout  and  run,  to-day  she  could  not  move  her  feet, 
and  there  were  many  days  during  the  year  when  she 
must  lie  still  in  bed. 

In  winter,  she  had  a  south  room,  at  the  front  of 
house,  where  she  saw  the  rising  and  the  setting  sun, 
and  had  a  good  view  of  all  the  people  who  passed  back 
and  forth  from  the  village ;  in  summer,  she  had  this 
cool  north  room  that  looked  out  on  the  back  yard. 

The  back  yard  was  full  of  interest  to  her— when 
she  could  forget  the  weeds.  Twenty  times  a  day 
her  mother  came  to  the  kitchen  door  to  look  up  at  her, 
and  tell  her  how  the  work  was  going  on ;  she  knew 
what  was  cooking  by  the  odors  that  eamt  up  to  her 


106  GROWING  UP. 

and  what  all  the  noises  meant,  from  the  click  of  the 
egg-beater  to  the  thud  of  the  churn-dasher,  and  she 
saw  old  Mrs.  Finch  when  she  came  to  borrow 
baking  powder,  and  the  pedlars,  and  book-agents, 
and  apple-tree  men ;  but  best  of  all  she  liked  to  watch 
for  her  father  to  come  in  to  dinner  and  supper. 

In  blue  flannel  shirt  and  big  straw  hat,  tired  and 
dusty  and  warm,  he  never  failed  to  look  up  and 
call:  "  Why,  hello,  you  there,  daughter?"  just  as  if 
she  were  well,  and  had  only  run  up  stairs  for  a 
moment  And  her  weak, "  I'm  here,  father,"  made 
the  sadness  and  the  happiness  of  his  life. 

Nettie  moved  her  head  slightly,  and  gained  a 
view  of  the  pasture  where  three  cows  were  feeding ; 
she  could  not  see  the  brook,  but  she  knew  that  it 
ran  through  the  pasture,  and  she  knew  there  were 
blue  lilies  all  along  the  brook,  some  of  them  grow 
ing  in  the  water. 

How  she  longed  to  see  those  lilies  growing  in  the 
water! 

She  was  only  ten  years  old  the  last  timt  she  saw 
those  lilies :  she  was  driving  home  the  cows  at 
night,  in  her  pink  calico  dress  and  stout  leather 
shoes,  with  her  father's  old  straw  hat  on  the  back  of 


FLOWERS  THAT  CAMS  TO  THB  WELL.  107 

her  head,  "a  picture  of  a  happy,  healthy,  country 
lassie,"  her  father  thought  as  he  watched  her  stand 
ing  by  the  clump  of  lilies  while  she  waited  for  the 
cows  to  drink.  She  was  thinking  she  would  gather 
a  big  bunch  of  the  lilies  as  soon  as  they  were  opened 
the  next  morning  —  but  the  pet  calf  came  behind 
her  and  butted  her  down,  and  her  father  carried 
home  in  his  arms  a  helpless  little  daughter.  And 
there  were  tiger  lilies  in  bloom ;  she  could  not  see 
the  place  where  they  were  growing,  but  it  was  only 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  away  in  a  fence  corner,  such  a 
patch  of  them !  Oh,  how  she  longed  to  see  those 
tiger  lilies  growing !  The  last  time  she  saw  the  tiger 
lilies  was  the  Sunday  before  she  said  good-bye  to 
the  blue  lilies  —  she  was  walking  home  alone 
from  Sunday-school  in  white  dress  and  blue  ribbons, 
and  brown  kid  shoes,  and  when  she  came  to  the 
fence  corner  with  the  great  clump  of  tiger  lilies,  she 
thought  of  picking  a  large  bunch  of  them,  but  just 
then  she  heard  a  noise  behind  her,  and  turning,  saw  a 
neighbor's  three  little  black  and  white  pigs ;  they  had 
followed  her  all  the  way  from  the  corner,  and  it  was 
so  funny  to  think  how  she  had  walked  along  un 
consciously,  with  those  pigs  in  single  file  behind 


108  GROWING  UP. 

her,  that  she  just  stood  and  laughed,  and  then  she 
clapped  her  hands  at  them  and  chased  them  back, 
and  forgot  all  about  the  tiger  lilies. 

"  Oh,  blue  lilies,  oh,  tiger  lilies,  I'll  never  see  you 
growing  any  more,"  she  sighed. 

"  Why,  hello,  daughter,  you  up  there  ? "  called  the 
voice  below  her. 

Nettie  did  not  answer;  she  felt  too  discouraged 
to  speak,  but  she  looked  down  and  tried  to  smile  at 
her  father. 

Her  father  looked  just  as  usual,  only  he  had  a 
scythe  over  his  shoulder. 

"  I  came  in  a  little  earlier  to  cut  down  your 
weeds,"  he  called  cheerily. 

Nettie  watched  him  as  he  swung  the  scythe,  and 
listened  to  the  swish,  swish,  as  the  tall  weeds  fell ; 
when  the  weeds  around  the  well  grew  less  she 
caught  a  glimpse  of  something  blue,  and  then 
of  something  red;  she  pulled  herself  up  to  the  win 
dow,  and  leaned  out,  and  then  she  shrieked :  — 

"  Father,  don't  cut  down  the  lilies!  " 

There  they  were,  blue  lilies  and  tiger  lilies,  grow 
ing  together,  close  by  the  well  1 

"  How  did  they  get  there,  father  ? "  she  called. 


FLOWERS   THAT  CAME  TO  THE  WELL.    10P 

"They  must  have  been  in  the  sod  that  I  put 
around  the  well  last  fall,"  he  replied ;  "  I  remember 
now  that  I  got  it  from  two  different  places.  If  I 
had  cut  down  the  weeds  before  the  lilies  bloomed,  I 
shouldn't  have  known  they  were  there,  and  should 
have  cut  them  all  down  together." 

Nettie  fell  back  in  her  chair  with  a  sigh  of  de 
light,  watching  her  father  while  with  his  hands  he 
pulled  all  the  weeds  away  from  the  lilies. 

"  Mother,"  she  called,  lifting  herself  forward,  and 
resting  her  chin  again  on  the  window-silL 

"Well,  Deary,"  came  in  a  quick  voice  from  the 
shed,  and  her  mother  appeared  in  the  shed  doorway 
with  the  dish  of  boiled  potatoes  she  held  in  her 
hand  when  Nettie's  voice  reached  her. 

**  Mother,  will  you  ask  Judith  to  stop  and  see  ay 
lilies  the  next  time  she  goes  past  ?  " 

"Your  lilies,  child?" 

"Yes,  my  own  lilies,  there  by  the  wclL 
came  and  grew  just  for  me." 

Mrs.  Evans  gave  a  glance  toward  the  we* 
hastened  to  set  the  potato  dish  on    the   '  "  ...:T 
table. 

"  Of  all  things !  And  how  she  has  wanted  **,  §ee 


110  GROWING   UP. 

lilies  grow  I  The  blessed  child  is  watched  over  and 
done  for  as  her  father  and  I  can't  do.  I  declare," 
in  a  shame-faced  way,  all  to  herself,  "  when  such 
things  happen  I  wish  I  was  a  Christian." 

"  Mother,  mother,"  called  the  happy  voice  again ; 
"  I  want  Joe  to  see  my  lilies  too." 

"  Yes,  Deary,"  promised  her  mother  from  within 
the  shed. 


TOS  LAST  APPLE.  Ill 


THE  LAST  APPLE. 

"God  loves  not  only  a  cheerful  giver,  but  a  cheerful 
worker  as  well."  FLETCHER  BEADE. 

THAT  afternoon  as  Nettie  was  slowly  rousing  her 
self  from  her  afternoon  nap  in  her  chair,  she  heard 
a  low,  joyful  exclamation  under  her  windows. 

"  Oh,  lovely.    Mrs.  Evans,  it's  like  —  a  poem." 

Then  a  light  flashed  over  the  pale  face,  and  Nettie 
lifted  herself  forward  to  look,  and  to  speak. 

"  0,  Judith,  I  wanted  you  to  see  them.  You  do 
love  pretty  things  so." 

Judith  came  through  the  shed,  and  up  the  nar 
row  rag-carpeted  stairs  to  the  open  door  of  Nettie's 
chamber. 

"  I  wish  you  would  write  a  poem  for  me." 

Nettie  Evans  was  Judith's  "  public,"  and  a  most 
enthusiastic  one;  the  young  author  looked  very 
grave  one  day  when  Nettie  told  her  that  she  liked 
her  poems  better  than  the  ones  she  read  to  her  from 
the  Longfellow  book. 


112  GROWING  UP. 

"  I  have  brought  a  poem  for  you ;  no  one  has  seen 
it  yet ;  I've  copied  it  to  send  to  my  Cousin  Don ; 
you  know  he's  in  Switzerland,  climbing  moun 
tains,  and  having  splendid  times.  It  happened  one 
Thanksgiving  —  I  was  here  in  the  country,  you  re 
member,  with  my  mother.  I  saw  one  rosy  apple 
left  on  the  top  of  a  tree,  and  I  felt  so  sorry  for  it 
One  day  I  thought  of  it  again,  and  I  wrote  this." 

Judith  drew  her  chair  close  to  Nettie's  and  took 
the  folded  sheet  of  note  paper  from  her  pocket 

"  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  make  poems  and  sew  carpet 
rags,"  moaned  Nettie. 

Judith  dared  not  say  she  wished  she  might,  she 
dared  not  pity  her,  or  look  at  her;  she  unfolded  her 
poem  and  began  to  read:  — 

THE  LAST  APPLE. 
I  am  a  rosy-cheeked  apple, 

Left  all  alone  on  the  wee, 
And  in  the  cold  wind  I  am  sighing, 

'Oh,  what  wUl  become  of  me.' 

Nettie  nodded  approval,  and  the  poet  read  mod 
estly  on:  — 

TheyVe  picked  my  sisten  and  eoortM, 

But  I  was  too  little  to  Me; 
Now,  they  will  be  eaten  at  GhristUM, 
But  nothing  will  happen  to  me* 


THS  LAST  APPLE.  113 

1'he  beets  are  pulled,  and  the  parsnips 
Are  cosily  left  in  the  ground  — 

When  the  farmer  counts  up  his  produce, 
No  record  of  me  will  be  found. 

I  was  as  pretty  a  blossom 

As  ever  gave  sweets  to  a  bee; 
But  "mong  the  good  things  for  whiter, 

No  one  will  be  thankful  for  me. 

There's  place  for  radish  and  carrot, 
Though  common  as  common  can  be, 

And  I  wonder,  wonder,  wonder, 
Why  /  was  left  on  the  tree. 

Oh,  here  comes  poor  little  Sadie, 
With  her  face  all  wet  with  tears; 

A  face  so  pale  and  hardened, 
But  not  with  the  lapse  of  years. 

Now,  fly  to  my  aid,  dear  cold  wind, 
And  receive  my  last  command,  — 

With  a  twist,  and  turn  and  flutter, 
Just  drop  me  into  her  hand. 

In  Nettie's  radiant  face  and  tear-filled  eyes  Judith 
found  the  appreciation  for  which  her  soul  thirsted. 

"  That's  lovely,"  exclaimed  Nettie,  "  may  I  keep  it 
and  learn  it  ?  " 

"  Of  course  you  may.    I'll  copy  it  for  you." 

"  And  I'll  say  it  in  the  rught  if  I  cannot  go  to 


114  GROWING  UP. 

sleep.  How  much  I've  had  in  one  day.  The  lilies 
and  the  red  apple.  Don't  you  believe  that  if  you 
can't  go  out  and  get  things  they  always  come  ?  " 

"  But  part  of  the  fun  is  going  out  to  get  them,"" 
said  Judith,  and  then,  in  quick  penitence,  "  but  it 
must  be  so  lovely  to  have  them  come  to  you." 

"Agnes  Trembly  came  yesterday  to  make  me  a 
new  blue  wrapper ;  I  like  to  have  her  sew  here  with 
me.  Her  mother  is  blind  and  that  is  harder  than 
my  lot  Agnes  said  she  wished  she  was  a  queen. 
But  I  never  thought  of  that" 

"  Now  I'll  tell  you  a  story.  There  is  a  little  girl 
somewhere  who  is  a  queen,  and  sometimes  she  has 
to  sit  in  state  and  receive  people,  and  do  other 
queenly  things.  One  day  when  she  was  playing 
with  her  dolls,  what  do  you  think  she  said  ? " 

"  What  ? "  asked  Nettie,  her  face  beaming. 

"  If  you  are  naughty  again,  I  will  make  you  a 
queen" 

Nettie  laughed  to  the  story-teller's  content. 

"Now,  I'll  tell  you  a  chicken  story.  This  hap 
pened  to  me.  Aunt  Eody  often  lets  me  help  her  feed 
the  chickens.  We  had  a  brood  of  little  chickens,  and 
all  died  but  two  of  them  •.  I  don't  know  why,  I  took 


THE  LAST  APPLE.*  115 

good  care  of  them.  One  morning  I  found  the 
mother  dead.  And  what  do  you  think  ?  —  those  two 
poor  motherless  little  sisters  cuddled  under  their 
dead  mother's  wing.  I  would  like  to  write  a  poem 
about  that,  only  it  breaks  my  heart,  and  I  like  to 
write  about  happy  things.  The  next  day  one  of 
them  died,  and  the  left  one  hadn't  any  chicken  com 
panion.  And  then,  what  do  you  think?  A  hen 
mother  who  had  only  one  chicken,  deserted  that  and 
went  to  roost ;  and  this  one  little  black  chicken 
tried  to  make  friends  with  the  sisterless  little  white 
chicken.  It  was  too  pretty  to  watch  them.  The 
one  whose  mother  deserted  went  into  her  little  coop 
and  called  and  called  to  the  other  one;  but  the 
white  chicken  didn't  understand  at  first ;  when  she 
did  understand,  the  black  chicken  made  it  so  plain, 
and  she  ran  to  the  coop,  and  the  little  black  chicken 
and  the  little  white  chicken  cuddled  together  as 
loving  and  happy  as  could  be." 

"  You  can  put  that  into  a  poem,"  suggested  Net 
tie,  her  eyes  alight  with  Judith's  presence  and 
stories. 

"Nettie,"  said  Judith,  impulsively,  al  love  to 
have  you  to  tell  things  to." 


116  GRotrix'a  UP. 


XL 

BOW  JEAN  HAD  AN  OCTD*! 

•'  Is  It  vrann  in  that  green  valley, 

Vale  of  Childhood,  where  you  dwell? 

Is  it  calm  in  that  green  valley, 

Bound  whose  bourns  such  great  hill**  swell? 

Are  there  giants  in  the  valley, 

Giants  leaving  foot-prints  yet? 

Are  there  angels  in  the  valley? 

Tell  me  —  I  forget."  JEAN  INGELOW. 

JEAN  had  been  crying ;  in  fact,  she  was  crying 
now,  but  the  tears  were  stopped  on  their  way  down 
her  cheeks  by  the  rush  of  her  new  thought  She 
was  always  having  new  thoughts  ;  but  this  was  thi 
most  splendid  new  thought  she  had  ever  had  in  her 
fourteen  years  of  life. 

"  I'll  do  it ! "  she  exclaimed  aloud,  springing  to 
her  feet.  "I'll  just  do  it,  and  nobody  will  know 
but  myself.  I'll  go  away  to  a  new  place  and  stay 
two  weeks." 

In  her  delight  she  clapped  her  hands  and  whirled 


SOW  JEAN  HAD  AN  OUTING.  117 

about  the  room,  it  was  such  a  small  room  to  clap 
your  hands  and  whirl  about  in.  That  was  the  cause 
of  her  tears  —  that  small  room ;  that  and  the  house, 
the  farm,  and  everything  she  had  to  do  —  and  doing 
the  same  disagreeable  things  every  day,  and  never 
going  anywhere. 

School  closed  yesterday ;  and  this  morning  Sophie 
Elting,  her  best  friend,  had  gone  away,  for  an  outing' 
she  called  it,  with  a  little  city  air  she  had  caught 
from  her  cousins.  She  was  going  to  the  sea-shore 
to  be  gone  two  weeks. 

"  I'll  play  go,"  cried  Jean,  "  and  I'll  stay  at  home 
and  do  all  the  things  here  that  people  do  when 
they  go  on  an  outing." 

The  first  thing  was  to  pack  up.  Sophie  had  a 
new  trunk,  and  had  shown  her  all  her  pretty  things 
packed  snugly  in  it :  cologne,  a  box  of  paper,  new 
handkerchiefs,  and  ever  so  many  things  to  go  on  an 
outing  with.  How  could  Jean  play  she  had  things 
which  she  hadn't  ?  And  she  had  no  trunk.  She 
would  "  pack  "  in  a  shawl-strap. 

She  put  in  her  Sunday  dress,  her  morning  ging 
ham,  two  white  aprons,  her  Bible  and  tooth-brush. 
She  had  ever  so  many  things  to  take  on  an  o' 


118  OBOWINO  UP. 

In  half  an  hour  her  shawl-strap  was  packed.  She 
looked  down  at  it  with  a  sigh  of  relief  and  pleasure. 
Now  she  had  started. 

"  Jean,"  came  up  the  stairway,  "  do  you  want  to 
go  to  town  ?  " 

Of  course  she  did!  The  coming  back  would  be 
"getting  there."  She  was  going  into  the  country 
for  two  weeks  to  board.  The  boarding  was  a  part 
of  it.  She  had  never  boarded  in  her  life ;  she 
would  be  a  summer  boarder  at  Daisy  Farm. 

"  There's  the  butter  to  take,"  the  voice  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs  went  on,  "and  you  may  as  well  get 
your  shoes,  and  111  give  you  twenty-five  cents  to 
spend  as  you  like." 

"  Oh,  thank  you  ! "  cried  Jean,  delightedly.  That 
would  buy  a  box  of  paper  and  envelopes,  and  she 
had  twenty  cents  for  stamps.  She  could  not  think 
of  another  thing  she  wanted. 

At  six  o'clock  that  afternoon,  when  Jean  drove 
back  into  the  yard  with  her  father,  she  had  two 
packages,  her  shoes  and  the  box  of  paper.  She  had 
not  been  her  usual  talkative  self  on  the  way  home. 
This  gentleman  sitting  beside  her  was  the  farmer  to 
whose  house  she  was  going.  He  had  met  her  at 


BOW  JEAN  HAD  AN  OUTING.  119 

the  train.  She  was  looking  about  the  country  and 
admiring  things ;  she  found  seven  things  to  admire 
which  she  had  never  noticed  before.  At  the  tea- 
table  she  intended  to  talk  about  them  —  "  rave,"  as 
the  summer  boarders  did. 

She  went  up  to  her  little  room  and  gravely  un 
packed  her  shawl-strap,  putting  the  things  into  the 
drawers  and  the  closet. 

Her  sister  Lottie  was  setting  the  tea-table, —  not 
in  her  play,  but  in  sober  reality,  —  and  it  was 
Minnie's  turn  to  milk  to-night.  The  four  sisters 
shared  the  housework  with  their  mother ;  Jean  was 
number  three.  Pet,  eleven  years  old,  was  the 
youngest 

"I  must  take  a  great  interest  in  everybody," 
Jean  said  to  herself.  "  Boarders  always  do.  I  must 
try  to  do  good  to  somebody,  as  Mrs.  Lane  helped  me 
last  summer." 

At  the  supper-table  she  began  to  talk  about  the 
beautiful  five-mile  drive  from  town,  and  the  sunset 
from  the  top  of  the  hilL 

"  It  is  pretty,"  said  Minnie. 

"  And  the  bridge  with  the  willows.  It  is  pretty 
enough  for  a  picture;  and  the  ducks  sailing  down 
the  stream.* 


120  GROWING  DP. 

"I  always  said  we  had  pretty  things  near  home," 
remarked  her  father. 

Then  Lottie  found  a  nook  in  the  woods  to  talk 
about,  and  Pet  told  of  a  place  like  a  cave,  and  the 
view  on  the  top  after  you  climbed  the  big  rock. 
The  tired  mother  brightened.  After  supper  Jean 
followed  her  father  out  the  back  door  and  stood 
beside  him. 

"How  is  the  watermelon  patch  doing?"  she 
asked,  in  a  voice  of  great  interest,  after  thinking  a 
minute. 

"  Finely  !  Never  so  well  before.  Come  and  look 
at  it" 

It  was  a  pleasant  walk.  Jean  imagined  that  she 
had  a  white  shawl  thrown  about  her,  and  once  in 
a  while  gave  it  a  twitch  as  she  listened  while  the 
farmer  talked  about  his  melons.  She  asked  ques 
tions  she  had  never  thought  of  asking  before,  and 
learned  several  new  things  about  the  farm. 

"  It's  a  good  thing  to  be  a  good  farmer,"  she  said. 
"  I  never  thought  before  how  much  farmers  had  to 
know."  Her  father  looked  pleased. 

It  was  Jean's  work  to  wash  the  milk-pails  and 
milk-pans.  She  did  it  that  night  with  a  sense  of 


mow  JEAN  UAH  Aif  oumr®. 


enjoyment  which  she  had  never  had  before,  for  she 
was  simply  "helping"  of  her  own  accord.  She 
would  be  very  helpful;  she  would  try  to  make 
these  strangers  care  very  much  for  her.  She  would 
watch  every  day  to  see  v/hnt  she  could  do  for  them. 
Mrs.  Lane  last  summer  had  taught  the  class  in  the 
Sunday-school  to  which  Jean  belonged,  and  had  said 
that  "all  must  try  to  be  a  blessing  to  every  one 
whom  their  life  touched."  It  appeared  to  Jean  that 
her  life  touched  everybody's  in  this  house. 

Sunday  was  a  wonderful  day.  She  listened  to 
the  new  preacher,  and  the  new  Sunday-school  was 
certainly  very  pleasant.  She  spoke  to  a  little  girl 
she  had  never  noticed  before,  and  gave  a  rose  to 
Julia  Weed,  whom  she  had  always  disliked.  She 
was  trying  to  be  like  Mrs.  Lane. 

In  the  evening  she  stayed  at  home  from  church 
with  her  mother,  bocr,use  her  mother's  head  ached  ; 
and  when,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  proposed 
reading  her  Sunday-school  book  to  her  mother,  she 
was  both  pleased  and  rebuked  to  hear  her  reply, 
"  Oh  yes,  I  should  like  it  !  I  can't  read  evenings, 
and  I  often  think  how  interesting  your  books  look." 

"  And  if  I  can't  finish  it  to-night,  may  I  read  to 
morrow  night  ?  "  Jean  asked  eagerly. 


122  GROWING  UP. 

"If  I  am  not  too  tired." 

"But  it  will  rest  you." 

"  Perhaps  so.     It  will  be  something  new." 

Something  new  for  her  to  be  thoughtful  about 
her  own  hard-working  mother!  And  she  had  to 
imagine  herself  in  somebody  else's  home  to  think  of 
it. 

What  a  day  Monday  was  !  She  was  busy  all  the 
morning,  "  helping,"  and  she  found  it  good  fun.  In 
the  afternoon  she  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Sophie,  and 
she  had  so  much  to  tell  that  she  filled  three  sheets. 
In  the  evening  she  read  aloud  to  her  mother,  and  her 
father  listened,  after  he  read  his  paper,  and  said  it 
was  a  "  jolly  good  book." 

When  she  left  the  room  to  go  to  bed,  she  said, 
"Good  night!"  Usually  she  forgot  it.  She  was 
careful  to  remember  "  thank  you,"  and  "  please." 

It  was  not  her  turn  to  iron.  To-morrow  would  be  a 
long,  hot  ironing  day,  and  there  were  so  many 
starched  things  this  week.  Lottie  was  in  a  hurry  to 
finish  the  pink  muslin  she  was  making  for  herself. 
If  she  should  offer  to  iron  two  hours,  and  let  Lottie 
sew  —  but  how  she  hated  to  iron ! 

Still,  she  could  only  stay  with  these  people  two 


BOW  JEAN  HAD  AN   OUTINQ.  12S 

weeks  —  and  there  was  nothing  else  Lottie  would 
like  so  much;  she  and  Lottie  had  not  been  very 
good  friends  lately,  and  this  would  "make  up." 
She  was  the  one  to  make  up,  for  she  had  been  cross 
and  had  refused  to  do  her  work  in  order  to  let  Lottie 
go  to  the  picnic.  Minnie  did  it,  and  let  Lottie  go, 
and  Jean  had  felt  mean  ever  since. 

But  she  was  only  fourteen,  and  it  was  vacation. 
But  Mrs.  Lane  said  —  and  now  she  wished  she 
hadn't!  —  that  nobody  ever  had  a  vacation  from 
doing  kind  things. 

She  could  help  iron  next  week.  This  was  her 
week. 

"I  guess  it's  God's  week!"  This  wag  one  of 
Jean's  new  thoughts.  Going  into  your  own  home 
like  a  new  somebody  was  very  hard  work;  she 
almost  wished  she  were  not  a  summer  boarder,  that 
she  had  stayed  at  home !  And  this  last  thought 
was  s6  funny  that  the  people  down-stairs  heard  her 
laughing. 

"  Jean  is  a  happy  child,"  said  her  mother. 

"  Yes,  she  seems  to  have  a  new  kink,"  replied  her 
father.  "She  is  taking  a  sudden  interest  in  every 
thing.  I  used  to  think  she  hated  the  farm  and 


124  GROWING  UP. 

everything  about  it.  The  farm  is  all  I've  got  to 
give  my  girls,  and  it  hurts  me  to  have  them  care 
nothing  about  it." 

"It's  vacation,  and  she's  more  rested,"  said 
Minnie.  "She  loves  books  better  than  any  of  us, 
and  studies  harder." 

"  I  don't  know  what  the  secret  is,  but  I'm  glad  of 
it,"  her  father  replied. 

With  a  brave  heart  the  next  morning  Jean  asked 
Lottie  if  she  might  iron  two  hours  and  let  her 
sew  on  her  pink  muslin. 

"You  blessed  child!"  cried  Lottie.  "I  had 
thought  I  must  sit  up  all  night  to  get  it  done  for  to 
morrow.  Two  hours  will  be  a  great  lift" 

Ironing  was  hot. and  hard  work,  beside  being  ex 
tremely  unpleasant  work  to  Jean ;  but  she  pushed 
the  two  hours  into  three,  and  never  was  so  happy  in 
her  life  as  when  her  oldest  sister  gave  her  an  un 
accustomed  kiss,  which  was  even  better  than  her 
words :  "  I  won't  forget  this,  Jeanie." 

Wednesday  morning  Jean  remembered  that,  as  a 
stranger,  she  must  learn  something  about  the  village 
and  the  village  people.  Bensalem  was  a  pretty 
village  with  one  long  street,  two  churches,  one  store, 


BOW  JEAN  HAD  AN  OUTING.  125 

a  post-office,  and  an  old  school-house.  She  had 
another  thought  to-day ;  this,  too,  grew  out  of  some 
thing  Mrs.  Lane  said  at  Sunday-school  "Bind 
something,  if  you  can ;  make  some  good  thing  fast, 
like  forming  a  little  society." 

How  she  would  like  to  do  that !  She  counted  over 
the  girls  she  liked  best.  There  were  nine,  and  ten 
would  form  a  society,  bound  fast  together.  This  she 
regarded  as  a  very  promising  new  thought.  But 
what  should  it  be  for  ?  Jean  pondered  a  great  deal, 
but  she  could  think  of  nothing  but  her  "  outing." 

Her  outing !  Why  shouldn't  it  be  an  Outing  Soci 
ety  —  not  to  get  up  real  vacations  for  people,  but  to 
get  them  out  of  themselves,  and  into  the  way  of 
helping  things  along,  and  beginning  right  at  home. 
For  that  was  the  curious  part  of  it  —  that  you  didn't 
have  to  go  away  anywhere.  It  seemed  to  come  to 
you. 

Jean  resolved  to  call  on  the  girls  and  tell  them 
about  it,  and  ask  them  to  come  to  her  house  and 
talk  it  over.  She  knew  now  what  she  would  call 
it :  The  Outing  Ten. 

First  she  would  call  at  the  Parsonage  and  tell 
Miss  Marion  about  it,  and  ask  her  what  to  do  first 
and  next 


126  GROWING  UP. 

But  she  could  not  tell  Miss  Marion  about  it  all 
herself;  perhaps  Judith  Mackenzie  would  go; 
Judith  knew  Miss  Marion  better  than  any  of  the 
girls.  She  was  always  staying  at  the  Parsonage  "  for 
company"  for  Miss  Marion. 


A  SECRET  ERRAND.  127 


XIL 

A  SECRET   ERRAND. 

«« Say  not « small  event ' !   Why « small  *  ? 
Costs  it  more  pain  than  this,  ye  call 
A  *  great  event,'  should  come  to  pass, 
Than  that?    Untwine  me  from  the  mass 
Of  deeds  which  make  up  life,  one  deed 
Power  shall  fall  short  in  or  exceed ! " 

BOBEBT  BBOWNXNG. 

ON  the  lounge  in  the  sitting-room,  Judith  lay 
cuddled  up  with  a  rare  ailment  for  her,  a  throbbing 
headache ;  Aunt  Affy  had  brought  a  pillow  from  her 
own  entry  bedroom,  and  bathed  her  forehead  with 
Florida  water ;  then  brushed  her  hair  for  a  long  time 
and  told  her  a  story  about  her  far-away  girlhood, 
"  when  Becky  and  Cephas  and  I  had  our  good  times. 
Not  that  we  don't  have  good  times  now ;  Becky  has 
hers  up  yonder,  and  poor  Cephas  and  I  do  the  best 
we  can  for  each  other  down  here." 

•Tudith    wondered  why    she    should    say  "poor 


128 


Cephas  "  ;  he  had  laughing  eyes,  and  a  merry  laugh, 
and  everything  that  happened  to  him  seemed  just 
the  very  hest  thing  that  could  happen. 

Aunt  Body  had  brewed  a  bowl  of  bitter  stuff  and 
stood  threateningly  near  while  Judith  lifted  her 
dizzy  head  and  forced  herself  to  taste  it 

"More,"  urged  Aunt  Body. 

She  tasted  again. 

"More,"  insisted  Aunt  Body. 

She  tasted  several  times  with  a  look  of  pitiful  ap 
peal  that  Aunt  Eody  resisted. 

M  More,"  commanded  Aunt  Body. 

"I  can't,"  sobbed  Judith,  but  she  obeyed,  and 
Aunt  Body  set  the  yellow  bowl  on  a  chair  by  the 
sofa,  that  she  might  taste  it  whenever  she  felt  like 
it 

Homesick  Judith  hid  her  face  in  the  small  pillow 
as  soon  as  she  was  left  alone,  and  cried  ;  she  cried 
for  her  mother  not  a  year  dead,  for  her  father  whom 
she  scarcely  remembered,  for  the  pretty  room  she 
had  with  her  mother  in  her  own  city  home,  for  her 
picture  of  the  Madonna  with  the  child,  that  Aunt 
Body  declared  popish  and  would  not  suffer,  even  in 
Judith's  own  room  ;  then  she  cried  because  Miss 


A  SECRET  ERRA&&  129 

Kenriey  had  not  come  yesterday,  as  she  half  prom 
ised,  and  then  because  Aunt  Eody  had  made  Cephas 
say  that  she  should  not  run  about  in  the  fields  with 
him,  but  stay  in  the  house  these  wonderful  days  and 
sew  carpet  rags ;  and  then,  if  she  cried  about  any 
thing  she  cried  in  her  sleep ;  a  soft  step  was  in  the 
room,  the  lightest  touch  covered  her  with  Aunt 
Affy's  fleecy  white  shawl 

"  Sit  down,"  whispered  Aunt  Affy's  voice,  *  she  is 
fast  asleep ;  she  is  a  good  sleeper,  we  shall  not  dis 
turb  her;  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  had  fits  of 
home-sickness  ;  she  never  tells ;  we  are  all  old  folks ; 
Eody  thinks  she  doesn't  need  any  more  schooling 
because  she  can  do  sums  and  writes  such  a  handsome 
hand,  so  she  doesn't  go  to  school  —  and  doesn't 
know  many  young  folks.  Rody  never  did  under 
stand  young  folks,  you  know  that.** 

"I  should  think  you  knew  that,"  replied  the 
other  whispering,  indignant  voice.  "So  Cephas  is 
back  again ;  he  was  gone  five  years,  wasn't  he  ?  " 

"  Five  this  last  time,  three  the  other  time." 

Judith  stirred,  pushed  the  white  wool  away  frow 
her  face,  and  listened. 

"  He  was  good  to  go,"  replied  the  still  indignant 
vote 


130  QROW1XQ  UP. 

Judith  made  a  soft  rustle;  Aunt  Affy  did  not 
heed  it 

"  Yes,  he  was  good,"  assented  Aunt  Affy's  sweet, 
old  voice,  "  he  is  always  ready  to  do  the  thing  that's 
happiest  for  me.  He  was  so  homesick  and  wrote 
such  heart-rending  letters  that  I  couldn't  stand  it 
Eody  sniffed,  as  she  has  always  sniffed  at  us,  but 
she  said  he  might  come  back  if  we  were  both  so  set 
on  it,  so  shamelessly  set  on  it** 

Judith's  little  protesting  groan  was  not  noticed ; 
then  she  shut  her  eyes  and  listened,  because  she 
could  not  help  it 

"  It's  a  burning  shame,  and  the  sister  you  have 
been  to  her,  too.  You  took  your  money  and  bought 
your  sisters  out  that  you  might  keep  the  old  place 
for  Eody." 

"  I  wanted  it  for  myself,  too,"  was  Aunt  Affy's 
honest  reply. 

"  But  you  could  have  taken  your  money  and  mar 
ried  Cephas — " 

"  But,  you  see,  she  never  could  bear  the  thought  of 
my  marrying  at  all ;  she  doesn't  dislike  Cephas  so 
much;  but  she  wants  me  all  to  herself.  She  doesn't 
like  men,  I'll  allow  that ;  she  never  had  any  kind  of 


A  88CBBT  RBBA&&,  181 

happy  experience  herself,  unless  it  happened  before 
I  was  born,  and  she  doesn't  know.  After  Becky  died, 
Cephas  and  I  had  to  comfort  each  other;  Rody 
never  was  a  great  hand  at  comforting,  and  the  other 
girls  were  all  dead  or  married.  She  had  been  a 
mother  to  me  all  my  life;  I  was  a  two  week's  old 
baby  left  in  her  care;  and  Becky  was  only  two 
years  old ;  we  were  her  two  babies." 

"  You  had  whippings  and  scoldings  enough  thrown 
in,  I'll  be  bound,"  was  the  visitor's  tart  rejoinder. 

"The  scoldings  are  thrown  in  now,"  said  Aunt 
Affy,  with  the  glimmer  of  a  smile ;  "  I  am  only  a 
girl  to  her ;  I  shall  never  grow  up  to  her ;  not  old 
enough  to  be  married,  sixty  years  old  as  I  am. 
Cephas  told  her  yesterday  that  he  would  fix  up  the 
old  house  with  his  own  money,  he  has  considerable 
laid  by,  and  she  dared  him  to  pull  off  a  shingle  or 
drive  a  nail  He  said  she  should  always  be  the  head 
of  the  house,  and  she  said  there  was  no  need  for 
him  to  tell  her  that.  You  see  that  we  could  not  be 
happy  in  making  her  old  age  unhappy.  She  is  so 
old  that  defiance  might  kill  her ;  she  is  eighty-four." 

"  I'd  let  it  kill  her  then,"  said  Miss  Afiy's  life-long 
friend. 


132  OBOWINO  UP. 

"No,  you  wouldn't.  Your  sister  is  your  sister, 
and  she  is  all  the  mother  I  ever  knew.  Cephas  and 
I  jog  on  together  like  two  old  married  folks.  She 
says  we  will  be  glad  when  she  is  under  the  sod  and 
we  can  have  our  own  way." 

*  She  might  let  you  have  it  now,  and  then  you 
wouldn't  be  glad,"  urged  Jean  Draper's  mother. 

"  She  cannot  let  us  have  it ;  her  own  will  is  too 
btrong  for  her;  when  she  gives  up  to  us  she  will 
die." 

"Then  I'd  do  it  anyway,"  counselled  the  other 
voice. 

"  We  did  talk  of  that,  but  we  are  afraid  to  —  she 
is  so  old,"  whispered  Aunt  Affy,  feeling  faint  with 
the  very  thought  of  it. 

"  Well,  it's  an  old  folks'  romance,  and  I  didn't 
know  old  folks  had  any,"  said  the  woman  who  was 
married  at  sixteen. 

But  the  girl  on  the  lounge  with  her  face  in  the 
pillow  had  listened;  she  had  listened  and  learned 
something  Aunt  Affy  would  not  have  told  her  for 
the  world. 

How  could  she  ever  look  into  Aunt  Affy's  face 
again?  And,  oh,  how  could  she  ever  love  Aunt 
Body? 


A  SECRET  EBBAfFD.  188 

She  groaned,  and  Aunt  Affy  came  to  her  and 
asked  if  she  felt  worse.  The  neighbor  went  out  on 
tiptoe  ;  Aunt  Eody  came  from  the  kitchen  to  stand 
threateningly  near  while  Aunt  Affy  coaxed  mouth 
ful  by  mouthful  the  draining  of  the  bitter  bowl 

While  Aunt  Eody  was  taking  her  nap  that  after 
noon  Jean  Draper  knocked  on  the  open  kitchen  door. 
Judith  and  Aunt  Affy  were  washing  dishes  together 
at  the  kitchen  sink ;  Judith  gave  a  cry  of  pleased 
surprise  at  the  sound  of  the  knock  and  the  vision  of 
the  girl  in  the  doorway. 

"  O,  Jean,  I  wished  for  you,"  she  said,  with  the 
longing  for  young  companionship  in  her  heart 

"And  I  wanted  you.  I  am  going  to  see  Miss 
Marion  on  a  secret  errand,  and  I  can't  do  it  without 
you.  Can  you  spare  her,  Miss  Affy  ?  " 

"  If  her  head  will  let  her  go,"  began  Miss  Any, 
doubtfully. 

"Oh,  that's  well,"  cried  Judith,  joyfully,  "but 
what  will  Aunt  Rody  say  ?"  she  questioned  in 
dismay. 

"  I  will  take  care  of  that,"  promised  Aunt  Afiy, 
anticipating  with  dread  the  half  hour's  scolding  the 
permission  would  bring  upon  herself. 


134  GROWING   UP. 

"You  are  making  her  a  gad-about  just  like 
yourself,"  the  monologue  would  begin. 

"  Are  you  sure,  Aunt  Affy,  dear  ? "  asked  Judith, 
anxiously. 

"  Yes,  sure.  Eun  away  and  put  on  your  new 
gingham." 


THS  TWO  BLESSED  THINGS.  186 


xm 

rtfl  TWO  BLESSED  THINGS. 

"In  all  thy  ways  acknowledge  Him,  and  He  shall  direct 
thy  paths.  "  —  Prov.  ill.  6. 

"  How  excellent  a  thought  to  me 
Thy  loving-kindness  then  shall  be  1 
Thus  in  the  shadow  of  Thy  wings 
I'll  hide  me  from  all  troublous  things." 

"  MY  life  is  like  Africa  ;  there  are  no  paths  any 
where,"  said  Marion.  She  was  not  petulant ;  the 
tone  was  not  petulant;  Marion  knew  she  thought 
she  was  bearing  her  life  bravely.  The  study  was 
cool  and  darkened  that  August  afternoon;  she  lay 
idly  upon  the  lounge,  a  fresh  magazine  in  her  lap, 
and  a  pile  of  books  on  the  carpet  within  veach  of 
her  idle  hands. 

A  year  ago  she  thought  she  loved  books  —  and 
music,  and  life. 

Eoger  liked  to  have  her  near  him  while  he  wrote 
and  studied,  but  he  did  not  like  her  idle  moods. 
This  latest  one  bad  lasted  two  days. 


136  GROWING    UP. 

He  pushed  his  large  volume  away,  and  taking  up 
an  ivory  paper  cutter  began  to  run  its  sharp  edges 
across  his  fingers.  Marion  was  easily  hurt;  he 
could  not  advise  work  as  he  did  yesterday. 

"If  your  life  were  like  Africa,"  he  began  in  an 
un  suggestive  tone,  "  you  would  have  a  beaten  track 
wherever  you  turned ;  no  unmapped  country  in  the 
world  is  better  supplied  with  paths  than  this  same 
Africa  that  your  hedged-in  life  is  like.  Every 
village  is  connected  with  some  other  village  by  a 
path  ;  you  can  follow  ziz-zag  paths  from  Zanzibar  to 
the  Atlantic ;  they  are  beaten  as  hard  as  adamant ; 
they  are  made  by  centuries  of  native  traffic." 

"I  have  learned   something   about   Africa,"   she 
answered,  demurely,  "  if  not  about  my  life." 
"  Which  are  you  the  more  interested  in  ? " 
"  Oh,  Africa,  just  now.     I  am  not  interested  in  my 
life  at  all." 

"  Marion,  dear,  is  Bensalem  a  failure  ? " 
"Yes,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned.     Not  for  you, 
dear  old  boy ;  it  is  splendid  for  you,  and  for  Bensalem. 
Even  Judith  listens  in  church." 

"  I  know  she  does.    I  write  my  sermons  for  her." 
"  For  a  girl  ?    How  do  you  expect  to  reach  other 
people,  then  ?"  she  inquired,  surprised. 


THE  TWO   BLESSED    THINGS.  137 

"  The  inspiration  came  to  me,  that  Sunday  she 
told  me  she  was  sorry  for  not  listening,  to  begin  all 
over  again  —  to  look  at  life  from  a  fresh  standpoint, 
from  the  standpoint  of  youth,  ardent,  hungry,  sen 
sation-loving  youth  —  " 

"Sensation—" 

"  Not  in  its  usual  acceptation ;  truth  cannot  but 
give  you  a  sensation  ;  I  knew  it  would  not  hurt  the 
old  people  and  the  middle-aged  to  begin  again ;  to 
enter  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  as  a  little  child,  and 
I  have  attempted  to  teach  the  children  in  the 
Kingdom  of  Heaven ;  to  talk  simply  about  the 
grand  old  truths ;  to  keep  that  girl  before  me  as  I 
thought  out  my  sermons  —  a  thoughtful  girl  who 
has  had  some  experience  in  life,  and  when  a  thought 
or  the  expression  of  it  was  over  her  head,  I  struck 
it  out." 

"Now  I  know  your  secret.  'Simplicity  and 
strength '  are  your  characteristics,  David  Prince,  our 
literary  blacksmith,  who  wrote  Bensalem  up  for  the 
Bunellen  News,  was  pleased  to  say.  Shall  you  keep 
this  up?" 

"  Until  I  find  a  better  way,"  he  said,  contentedly. 

"  Everybody  listens." 


138  GROWING   UP. 

"  Even  Miss  Rody,"  he  said,  smiling  at  the  memory 
of  Miss  Rody's  face. 

"And  all  the  other  old  folks.  Old  folks  and 
children.  What  about  the  young  men  and  maidens  ? " 

"Aren't '  simplicity  and  strength  'good  enough  for 
them  ?  "  he  inquired,  seriously. 

"  It's  good  enough  for  me." 

"  Not  quite,"  he  answered 

"Why?" 

"  You  listen,  of  course.** 

"  But  I  do  not  grow  fast  enough  ?  Roger,  Fve 
stopped  growing.  I  knew  something  was  the  matter 
with  me,  and  that's  it." 

"A  pretty  serious  it" 

"I  know  that  better  than  you  can  tell  me.  I 
wish  Judith  Grey  Mackenzie  —  how  Aunt  Rody 
brings  that  out  —  would  give  me  an  inspiration." 

"  Bring  her  here  for  a  week  and  I'll  promise  that 
she  will." 

"Aunt  Affy  could  not  spare  her.  Her  yellow 
head  is  the  sunshine  of  that  old  house.  But  I'll  have 
her  some  day.  I  wish  I  owned  her.  ** 

"I  wish  you  did.  I  would  buy  her  myself  if  I 
had  money  enough." 


THE  TWO  BLESSED  THINGS.  139 

"I  wonder  who  does  own  her,"  said  Marion;  "I 
forgot  that  she  does  not  belong  to  anybody." 

"  She  does  belong  to  somebody.  Her  mother  gave 
her  to  Aunt  Affy." 

Perhaps  she  belonged  somewhat  to  her  "Cousin 
Don." 

Eoger  never  talked  about  Don.  He  never  read 
aloud  to  her  the  foreign  letters  she  saw  so  often  on 
the  study  table. 

A  sigh  came  of  itself  before  she  could  stifle  it; 
the  idle  fingers  opened  the  magazine;  Eoger's  pen 
began  to  race  across  the  paper.  Voices  on  the  piazza 
brought  Marion  to  her  feet ;  Judith's  voice  was  in 
the  hall. 

"  0,  Miss  Marion,  we  came  to  tell  you  — "  began 
Judith. 

"  And  to  ask  you  how  —  "  continued  Jean. 

"To  make  an  Outing  Ten,"  finished  Judith. 

At  the  tea-table  Marion  told  Eoger  the  story  of 
how  Jean  had  an  outing. 

"I  wish  you  might  have  heard  the  unconscious 
way  she  told  it.  My  life  is  like  Africa :  all  beaten 
tracks.  I  am  to  be  the  President  of  the  Outing  Ten. 
All  Bensalem  is  to  be  my  own  special  private  outing, 
but  nobody  is  to  know  it" 


140  GROWING   UP. 

"  Then,  Marion  dear,  you  will  have  the  two  moat 
blessed  things  on  the  earth." 

"What  are  they?" 

"Don't  you  know?" 

"  You  think  work  is  one,"  she  said  doubtfully. 

"So  you  think.  And  companionship  is  the 
other." 

"  Roger,  dear,  I'm  afraid  I  haven't  given  you  com 
panionship;  I've  been  stupid,  self-absorbed,  idle — * 
.  "Any thing  else?" 

"  But  you  have  been  desolate,  sometimes." 

"  My  work  has  been  my  companionship." 

"  Then  there  is  only  one  blessed  thing  to  you,"  she 
said,  merrily.  "  May  you  get  it" 

"  I  am  getting  it  every  day." 

"  Then  you  do  not  inwardly  fret  against  the  limi 
tations  of  this  bit  of  a  village — "  she  began,  frightened 
at  herself  for  the  suggestion :  "  I  thought,  perhaps, 
you  were  bearing  Bensalem." 

"  So  I  am,  I  hope,"  he  answered,  gravely,  "  in  my 
^eart,  and  in  my  prayers." 

c:  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  returned,  flushing  under 
the.  "  splendid  purpose  in  his  eyes."  "  I  might  have 
known  you  were  too  broad  to  feel  narrowed,  as  I  do." 


THE  TWO  BLESSED  THINGS.  141 

"You  remember  what  Lowell  says:  'There  are 
few  brains  that  would  not  be  better  for  living  for 
a  while  on  their  own  fat.' " 

"And  that  is  better  than  the  fat  of  the  land  — 
which  you  will  never  get  in  Bensalem." 

"I  think  I  started  from  my  new  standpoint 
without  worldly  ambition.  Think  of  Paul  writing 
the  Epistle  to  the  Romans  from  a  literary  point  of 
view." 

"Well,  then,"  with  a  laugh  that  was  half  a 
grumble,  "  I  despair  of  you,  if  you  '  take  pleasure '  as 
he  did  in  all  sorts  of  infirmities  and  limitations  —  I 
was  beginning  to  be  ambitious  for  you.  You  spent 
all  the  afternoon  last  week  with  Agnes  Trembly's 
mother,  reading  to  her,  and  telling  her  stories — you 
do  not  take  time  to  study  as  you  used  to  study. 
You  were  such  a  student.  Now  all  you  care  for  is 
people  —  and  the  Bible,"  she  ran  on,  discontentedly; 
"What  does  Don  think  of  you?"  she  asked,  with  a 
sudden  flush. 

"  He  is  in  despair,"  he  replied,  thinking  of  Don's 
latest  letter  of  angry  expostulation. 

"  He  is  ambitious,"  said  Marion}  reproachfully. 

"  So  am  I,"  he  answered,  smiling  at  the  reproach. 


142  GROWING   UP. 

"  But  in  such  a  way.  I  like  ambition.  I  would 
like  to  do  something  in  the  world  myself." 

"  The  man,  or  woman,  or  child,  who  does  the  will 
of  God  is  every  day  doing  something  in  the  world/' 
he  said,  seriously. 

For  a  moment  she  was  silenced,  then  urged  by  her 
own  discontent  she  burst  out:  — 

"  But  five  hundred  or  a  thousand  people  might  as 
well  listen  to  you,  and  be  influenced  by  your 
'strength  and  simplicity/  as  this  handful  of  Ben* 
salem." 

"  The  perfect  Teacher  was  more  than  once  content 
with  but  one  listener." 

"Yes;  but  his  sermon  was  written  and  handed 
down  to  all  the  ages,"  she  answered,  in  a  flash. 

"  If  one  life  here  in  Bensalem  is  moved,  and  an 
other  life  moved  by  that,  who  can  tell  how  far  down 
the  ages  the  influence  may  go  ?  Beside,  that  is  not 
my  care,"  he  said,  in  his  rested  voice. 

"  But  wouldn't  you,  now,  candidly,  rather  influence 
ten  hundred  lives  than  one  hundred  ?  " 

"Candidly,  I  would." 

"And,  yet,  you  have  refused  a  call  to  Maverick, 
and  stay  stupidly  here." 


THE  TWO  BLESSED  THINGS.  143 

"  Stupidly  is  your  own  interpretation.  I  will  be 
content  to  move  one  man  if  I  might  choose  the  man. 
I  am  determined  to  learn  what  can  he  done  in  a 
village  by  one  man  who  stays  for  the  'fat  of  the 
land,'  the  youth.  From  Drummond's  standpoint, 
only  the  boy  himself  and  the  young  man  under 
stand  the  boy.  My  outlook  just  now  is  from  the 
standpoint  of  that  big-eyed,  sensitive-lipped  Joe,  and 
your  Judith.  Men  and  women  are  but  boys  and 
girls  grown  tall  I  find  out  the  boy ;  you  are  help 
ing  me  to  the  girL" 

"I  am  glad  I  can  help,"  said  Marion,  satisfied. 


144  QBOWINQ  rJP. 


XIV. 

AN  AFTERNOON  WITH  AN  ADVENTURE  IN  IT. 

"  Lead  us  not  into  temptation;  bat  delirer  as  from  eril." — 

Luke  xi.  4. 

"  Lord,  Thou  knowest  all  things :  Thou  knowest  that  I  love 
Thee."  —  John  xxi.  17. 

IT  was  rag-carpet  afternoon ;  it  was  also  another 
kind  of  an  afternoon,  an  afternoon  with  an  adventure 
in  it,  and  Judith  longed  for  adventures;  but,  of 
course,  all  she  knew,  at  first,  was  the  rag-carpet; 
the  adventure  was  to  happen  in  the  kitchen,  and 
the  rag-carpet  ball  was  happening  in  Aunt  Affy's 
room. 

Judith  was  a  working  member  of  the  Outing  Ten, 
but  if  her  outing  meant  this  rag-carpet  ball  it  was 
very  discouraging,  and  if  it  were  not  for  the  pleasure 
of  telling  the  President  about  the  rag-carpet,  she 
thought  she  would  resign  and  become  member  of  a 
ten  that  had  more  fun  in  it 


AN  AFTERNOON  ADVENTURE.  146 

But  then,  Miss  Marion  was  doing  this  kind  of 
thing  herself,  things  she  did  not  like  to  do  about 
the  house,  for  she  had  sent  away  her  servant  and 
was  doing  all  the  work  excepting  washing  and 
ironing,  and,  perhaps,  in  the  village,  too,  she 
was  doing  uncongenial  errands ;  but,  of  course,  she 
would  never  tell  the  Outing  Ten  about  that;  she 
was  going  out  to  tea  and  making  calls,  as  she  had 
said  she  never  would  do  when  she  canie  to  Bensalem, 
and  she  was  taking  her  music  back  and  practicing 
hours  every  day,  and  reading  solid  books,  instead  of 
novels  ;  she  had  let  books  and  music  go  for  a  while, 
Judith  had  heard  her  say  to  Aunt  Affy,  and  that 
Jean  Draper's  outing  had  been  the  blessing  of  her 
life.  It  was  Nettie's  blessing,  too;  she  told  Marion 
she  had  an  "  outing  "  every  day ;  she  was  patching 
a  quilt  and  studying  history. 

The  history  study  was  a  part  of  Marion's  outing, 
but  the  Ten  did  not  know  that 

Aunt  Affy,  wearing  a  calico  loose  gown  of  lilac 
and  white,  was  seated  in  a  rocker  at  the  window 
combing  her  long  gray  hair :  her  hair  was  soft  and 
thick,  she  twisted  it  into  a  coil,  and  behind  her 
each  ear  she  brushed  a  long  curL 


146  GROWING  UP. 

Judith  liked  to  twist  these  curls  around  her 
fingers  when  she  talked  to  Aunt  Affy. 

"Only  a  little  more  to  do,"  encouraged  Aunt 
Affy,  giving  her  coil  a  firm  twist 

Sitting  on  the  matting  at  Aunt  Afify*s  feet  the 
little  girl  began  her  weary  work  again. 

"  Aunt  Affy !  How  did  you  get  your  name  ?  "  she 
inquired  with  the  eagerness  of  something  new  to 
talk  about. 

"  How  did  you  get  yours  ? "  asked  Aunt  Afly, 
seriously. 

"  But  mine  is  a  real  name." 

"  Isn't  mine  ?  " 

"  I  never  heard  it  before." 

"  Some  people  have  never  heard  of  Judith." 

"  That  is  true.     Nettie  never  had." 

"  Mine  is  in  the  Bible.     So  is  Eody's." 

"  Is  it  ?   Well,  I've  never  read  the  Bible  through." 

"  I  will  show  it  to  you." 

"Aunt  Affy,  you  and  Aunt  Eody  never  look  in 
the  glass  when  you  comb  your  hair.  You  sit  any 
where.  It's  very  funny." 

"When  you  have  combed  your  hair  sixty  and 
eighty  years  you  will  not  need  to  look  in  the  glass," 
was  the  serious  reply. 


AN  AFTERNOON  ADVENTURE.  147 

"  It  isn't  sixty,"  said  literal  Judith.  "  You  did  not 
do  it  when  you  were  a  baby." 

Taking  her  New  Testament  in  large  type  from 
the  small  table  near  her,  Aunt  Affy  found  the  place 
and  laid  it  on  the  arm  of  her  chair;  Judith  lifted 
herself  and  read  where  Aunt  Affy's  finger  pointed : 
"  And  to  our  beloved  Apphia  —  but  that  isn't  Affy," 
said  astonished  Judith. 

'  It  grew  down  to  it  when  I  was  a  girl,  and  has 
never  grown  up.  Shall  I  find  Body  ?" 

Again  Aunt  Affy  found  the  place,  and  Judith 
read ;  " '  And  as  Peter  knocked  at  the  door  of  the 
gate,  a  damsel  came  to  hearken  named  Rhoda.' 
That's  very  funny,"  she  said,  settling  down  among  her 
rags. 

"  There  were  eight  of  us  girls,  and  we  all  had  Bible 
names  :  Rody,  Dark,  that  was  Dorcas,  Mary,  Marthy> 
Deborah;  that's  your  mother's  mother,  Hanner,  it  is 
really  Hannah,  Becky,  and  Affy  the  youngest,  is 
eight.  Rody  and  I  only  are  left.  They  were  all 
married  but  Rody  and  Becky  and  me.  Cephas  was 
engaged  to  poor  Becky,  and  she  died ;  he  went  away 
after  that,  went  South,  went  West,  and  at  last  came 
here ;  I  wrote  to  him  to  come  and  finish  his  days 
with  ma  Body  wasn't  exactly  pleased." 


148  GROWING   UP. 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Judith,  excited  over  the  old  folks 
romance. 

"  She  doesn't  like  new  happenings,  and  she  never 
had  liked  Cephas." 

"  She  scolds  him,"  said  Judith,  with  a  feeling  of 
sympathy. 

"  She  scolds  me.  She  scolds  the  minister.  It  is 
only  her  way  of  talking." 

At  that  moment  Aunt  Body's  blue  gingham  sun- 
bonnet  appeared  at  the  window ;  Judith's  nervous 
fingers  worked  hurriedly. 

"Not  done  yet.  Jean  Draper  is  worth  two  of 
you.  The  graham  bread  is  out  of  the  oven,  a  perfect 
bake,  and  I  am  going  to  call  on  Mrs.  Evans,  *nd  take 
Nettie  a  custard." 

"Well,"  said  Aunt  Affy. 

Aunt  Eody's  hair  was  white,  but  if  it  were  soft  to 
the  touch,  Judith's  fingers  would  never  know; 
her  black  eyes  were  deep  set,  she  had  not  one  tooth, 
and  her  wrinkled  lips  had  a  way  of  keeping  them 
selves  sternly  shut,  unless  they  were  steroty  opened. 

"  Joe  is  hunting  eggs ;  I  hope  he  won't  get  into 
mischief  while  I'm  gone." 

"  He  hasn't  yet,*  said  Judith,  Joe's  champion. 


AN  AFTERNOON  ADVENTURE.  149 

Joe,  with  his  closely  cut  black  hair,  his  grateful 
eyes,  new  gray  suit  with  navy  blue  flannel  shirt, 
rough  shoes,  willing  and  efficient  ways,  and  his  great 
love  for  Doodles,  was  some  one  not  at  all  out  of  place 
on  the  "  Sparrow  farm ; "  even  dainty  Judith  did  not 
altogether  disapprove  his  presence  at  the  table. 

The  small  disciple's  forhead  was  all  in  a  pucker, 
and  the  blue  eyes  were  so  filled  with  tears  that  there 
was  not  room  enough  in  her  eyes  for  them ;  one  tear 
kept  pushing  another  down  over  her  cheeks;  they 
even  rolled  over  her  lips  and  tasted  salt. 

"  Have  you  noticed  the  name  on  my  new  darning 
yarn  ? "  inquired  Aunt  Affy,  replacing  the  New  Testa 
ment  on  the  table. 

"  Superior  quality,"  read  Judith,  taking  the  card 
from  the  basket  Aunt  Affy  brought  to  her  lap  from 
the  table. 

"  No  ;  on  the  top." 

"  Dorcas,"  read  Judith. 

"  Dorcas.     Who  is  that  for  ?  " 

"The  name  of  the  man  who  made  it,"  replied 
Judith,  stopping  her  dawdling  and  threading  her 
needle. 

"  I  think  not" 


150  GROWING  UP. 

"His  little  girl's  name,  perhaps,"  ventured  Judith. 

"  It  may  be,  for  aught  I  know ;  but  I  do  not  think 
that  is  the  name  of  the  wool" 

"  Then  I  don't  know,"  said  Judith,  interestedly. 

"  I  know  something  and  I  will  tell  you.  A  long, 
long,  long  time  ago,  there  was  a  little  girl ;  I  think 
she  learned  to  sew  when  she  was  a  little  girl,  for  she 
knew  how  to  sew  beautifully,  and  her  work  was 
strong  and  did  not  rip  easily.  Perhaps  she  began 
by  doing  disagreeable  things  and  then  went  on  to  other 
things  until  she  learned  how  to  make  coats  and 
garments  for  children  and  grown-up  people.  Her 
name  was  Dorcas." 

"  Did  the  man  who  made  the  wool  into  yarn  know 
about  her  ? "  asked  Judith. 

"  I  think  so.     Almost  everybody  does." 

"  I  never  heard  of  her  before.     Is  that  all?" 

"No;  that  is  only  the  beginning.  She  was  a 
disciple.  And  disciples  always  love  each  other  and 
work  for  each  other." 

"Do  they?"  asked  Judith,  her  face  glowing. 
Why,  that  was  splendid  and  easy. 

"And  she  worked  for  widows  and  perhaps  for 
their  little  children,  and  they  loved  her  dearly.  But 


AN  AFTEENOON  ADVENTURE.  151 

she  died,  and  oh,  how  they  grieved  !  They  sent  for 
another  disciple,  Peter;  they  thought  he  could  help 
them.  His  faith  was  so  great  that  he  kneeled  down 
and  prayed ;  then  he  spoke  to  her,  and  she  opened 
her  eyes,  and  looked  at  him,  and  then  she  sat  up. 
And  then  he  called  the  people  she  had  made  coats 
and  garments  for,  and  in  great  joy  they  had  her 
back  alive  again.  God  was  willing  for  her  to  come 
back  to  earth  and  go  on  with  her  beautiful  work. 
He  cares  for  the  work  of  his  disciples,  even  when  it 
is  only  using  thread  and  needle." 

Judith's  curly  head  drooped  over  her  hated  work  ; 
she  was  so  ashamed  of  behaving  "  ugly  "  ;  she  hoped 
she  had  not  behaved  quite  as  ugly  as  she  fait. 

The  ball  was  the  required  size  at  last,  and  she 
joyfully  took  it  up  in  the  garret  to  the  barrel  that 
was  only  half  filled. 

Then,  aimlessly,  she  wandered  into  the  kitchen, 
and  there,  odorously,  temptingly,  under  a  clean, 
coarse  towel,  were  the  two  loaves  of  warm  graham 
bread ;  she  thought  she  cared  for  nothing  in  the  way 
of  bread,  cake,  or  pudding  as  much  as  she  cared  for 
fresh  graham  bread  and  butter. 

And  Aunt  Body  sever  would  put  it  on  the  table 


152  GROWING  UP. 

fresh.  For  a  slice  of  this  she  must  wait  until  to 
morrow  night. 

Lifting  the  coarse  towel  she  peeped,  then  she 
touched;  another  touch  brought  a  crumb,  such  a 
delicious  crumb ;  another,  and  another,  and  another 
delicious  crumb,  and  the  crust  of  one  end  of  a  loaf 
was  all  picked  off, 

"  Oh,  deary  me  !  "  cried  Judith,  in  dismay. 

Then  she  covered  it  carefully,  standing  spell 
bound. 

What  would  Aunt  Rody  say  to  her  ? 

What  would  Aunt  Rody  do  to  her  ? 

Afraid  to  go  away  and  leave  the  bread  that  would 
tell  its  own  story,  afraid  to  stay  with  it,  for  Aunt 
Rody's  sunbonnet  and  heavy  step  might  appear  at 
any  moment,  she  went  to  the  sink  to  pump  water 
over  her  hands  and  to  decide  what  to  do  next. 

Joe  was  on  his  way  to  the  barn  and  stables  to 
gather  eggs ;  Aunt  Rody  had  made  a  law  that  she 
should  not  go  into  any  of  the  outbuildings  without 
permission,  —  without  her  permission;  in  summer 
time  there  were  "so  many  machines  and  things 
around,  and  children  had  a  way  of  stepping  into  the 
jaws  of  death."  She  missed  hunting  the  eggs. 


AN  AFTERNOON  ADVENTURE.  153 

The  gate  swung  to,  there  was  a  step  on  the  flagged 
path ;  with  her  hands  dripping,  she  flew  up  the 
kitchen  stairs ;  on  the  landing  she  waited,  breath 
less,  to  hear  what  Aunt  Eody  would  say. 

The  step  was  in  the  kitchen,  there  was  a  pause,  — 
Aunt  Rody  must  be  uncovering  the  bread ;  a  smothered 
exclamation,  then  a  quick,  angry  voice :  "  That  Joe ! 
He's  always  doing  something  underhanded.  He's 
too  fond  of  eating;  I  will  not  say  one  word,  but  he 
shall  not  have  any  of  this  graham  bread,  or  the 
next,  if  I  can  help  it.  When  he  asks  for  it  I'll  tell 
him  before  all  the  table-full  that  he  knows  why." 

The  awful  sentence  was  delivered  in  an  awful 
voice;  tearful  and  trembling,  the  culprit  up  the 
stairway  heard  every  word ;  it  was  her  dreadful 
secret,  her  guilty  secret ;  she  no  more  dared  to  rush 
down  the  stairs  and  confess  the  theft  than  she  dared 
—  she  could  not  think  of  any  comparison. 

She  fled  through  the  large,  unfurnished  chamber, 
known  as  the  store-room,  to  her  own  room,  and  there, 
bolting  the  door,  threw  herself  upon  the  bed  and 
wept  as  she  had  never  wept  before ;  because  she  had 
never  been  so  wicked  and  frightened  before.  Joe 
would  be  punished  for  her  sin ;  she  would  not  dare 
confess  if  Aunt  Rody  starved  him  to  death. 


154  GROWING   UP. 

"  Judith,  Judith,  come  out  on  the  piazza,"  called 
Aunt  Afly. 

She  peeped  in  the  glass :  her  eyes  were  red,  and 
her  hair  was  tumbled ;  the  latter  was  nothing  new, 
she  could  sit  in  the  hammock  with  her  eyes  away 
from  Aunt  Affy. 

As  she  stepped  from  the  sitting-room  door  to  the 
piazza,  Joe  rushed  around  the  corner  of  the  house, 
an  egg  in  each  hand,  frightened  and  out  of  breath. 

"  There's  an  earthquake  —  in  the  southern  part  of 
Africa  —  and  I've  been  in  it;  and  I'm  afraid  the 
house  will  go  in ;  oh,  what  shall  we  do  ?  Mr.  Brush 
is  up  in  the  field  —  " 

"Stand  still,  Joe,  and  get  some  breath  to  talk 
with,  and  then  tell  us  what  has  happened  to  you," 
said  Aunt  Affy,  quietly.  Joe  dropped  on  the  piazza 
floor,  still  carefully  holding  the  eggs. 

"Will  the  house  rock  and  come  down,  do  you 
think,  Aunt  Affy,  as  the  houses  did  in  the  book 
Judith  read?" 

"  How  did  you  get  all  that  earth  on  your  clothes 
and  tear  your  shirt-sleeve  ? "  Judith  inquired,  for 
getting  her  red  eyes  in  the  latest  adventure. 

"  In  the  earthquake ;  I  went  in  almost  up  to  my 


AN  AFTERNOON  ADVENTURE.  155 

neck,  but  I  held  on  with  one  hand  and  didn't  break 
the  eggs." 

"  Where  was  the  earthquake  ? "  she  asked. 

"  In  the  sheep  pen.  I  was  looking  for  eggs,  and 
the  first  I  knew  I  felt  the  ground  sliding,  and  I  was 
going  down  —  there  was  water,  for  I  heard  it  splash. 
I  thought  you  said  fire  was  inside  the  earth;  I 
went  down  into  water.  And  I  caught  hold  of 
something  with  one  hand  because  I  had  two  eggs 
in  the  other,  and  I  pulled,  and  pulled,  and  pulled 
myself  up  and  out." 

"  Why,  Joe,  you  poor  boy,"  exclaimed  Aunt  Affy, 
in  alarm,  "  that  old  cistern  has  caved  in  at  last,  and 
you've  been  in  it;  you  might  have  been  drowned. 
What  a  mercy  that  you  are  safe.  Don't  you  go 
near  that  sheep  pen  again  until  Mr.  Brush  says  you 
may." 

"  I'll  never  go  near  it  again  —  I've  had  enough 
of  it.  I  couldn't  scream  —  I  tried  to,  but  nobody 
heard.  Are  you  sure  it  won't  cave  in  again,  and  get 
here,  and  swallow  up  the  house  ? " 

"That  will  not,"  laughed  Judith,  "  Oh,  you  queer 
boy." 

"  Then  may  I  have  some  bread  and  butter  ? "  he 


156  GROWING   UP. 

asked,  rising.  "  I  think  it  will  turn  me  crazy  if  it 
caves  in  again." 

"  Aunt  Rody  is  in  the  kitchen  ;  tell  her  your  story 
and  ask  her  for  the  bread,"  replied  Aunt  Affy. 

Judith  trembled  so  that  she  could  scarcely  stand ; 
she  dared  not  follow  Joe ;  she  dared  not  stay  where 
she  was  :  Aunt  Rody  herself  made  a  way  of  escape 
for  her  by  coming  to  the  kitchen  door  with  a  slice 
of  graham  bread  in  her  hand. 

"  Here,  Joe :  I  heard  your  story.  Here's  the  bread. 
I  hope  you'll  behave  yourself  after  this.  Now, 
Judith,  you  see  the  reason  I  keep  you  from  hunting 
eggs.  You  might  be  dead  in  that  cistern  this 
moment." 

"You  couldn't  pull  yourself  up  as  I  did,"  re 
marked  Joe,  giving  Aunt  Rody  the  two  eggs  as  she 
handed  him  the  graham  bread. 

Judith  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief.  Now  she 
need  never  tell ;  Joe  would  not  be  punished. 

That  evening  at  family  prayer  Cephas  read  about 
the  institution  of  the  Lord's  Supper  and  the  betrayal 
of  Christ :  Joe  shuffled  his  feet  until  a  look  from  Aunt 
Rody  quieted  him;  Judith  looked  as  if  she  were 
listening,  but  she  did  not  catch  the  meaning  of  a 


AN  AFTERNOON  ADVENTURE.  157 

single  sentence  until  something  arrested  her  rapid, 
remorseful  thinking:  "And  when  they  had  kindled 
a  fire  in  the  midst  of  the  hall,  and  were  set  down 
together,  Peter  sat  down  among  them.  But  a  certain 
maid  beheld  him  as  he  sat  by  the  fire,  and  earnestly 
looking  upon  him,  and  said,  This  man  was  also  with 
him.  And  he  denied  him,  saying :  Woman  I  know 
him  not." 

Peter  was  afraid.  He  was  afraid  to  tell  that 
woman.  The  small  disciple  looked  at  the  old  lady 
sitting  in  her  high  straight-backed  chair,  with  her  long 
hands  so  still  in  her  lap,  her  lips  tight  shut,  her 
eyes  roving  from  Joe  to  Judith,  and  then  to  Joe,  then 
the  dreadful  round  again,  and  she  thought  the 
woman  that  frightened  Peter  must  have  been  like 
Aunt  Rody. 

She  knew  how  afraid  Peter  was. 

She  did  not  hear  one  word  of  the  long  prayer; 
she  knelt  near  Aunt  Sody;  she  tried  not  to  sob, 
or  to  be  afraid,  but  she  was  afraid ;  not  now  of 
being  found  out,  but  afraid  that  she  was  wicked.  As 
long  as  she  lived  she  would  never  dare  to  telL 

And  she  never  did  tell,  not  as  long  as  Aunt  Rody 
lived. 


158  GROWING  Z7P/ 

For  many  a  day  her  heart  was  heavy  with  the 
sin  of  allowing  the  innocent  to  be  suspected;  but 
she  was  not  a  very  brave  small  disciple. 

One  night  at  prayers  she  surprised  them  all  by 
saying  suddenly  and  vehemently:  "I  don't  care  if 
Peter  was  so  wicked;  I  like  him  better  than  any 
body  in  the  whole  Bible." 


AT  ANTIOCH.  159 


XV. 

"FIRST  AT  ANTIOCH.1* 

*  How  beautiful  it  is  to  be  alive ! 
To  wake  each  morn  as  if  the  Maker's  grace 
Did  us  afresh  from  nothingness  derive, 
That  we  might  sing :  How  happy  is  our  case, 

How  beautiful  it  is  to  be  alive." 

H.  S.  SUTTOH. 

IT  was  Saturday  afternoon ;  Judith  had  been  busy 
in  the  kitchen  all  the  morning  with  Aunt  Rody,  and 
she  (not  Aunt  Rody)  had  kept  her  temper ;  that  was 
one  happening  that  made  the  day  memorable  and 
delightful,  and  then  there  were  three  others:  one 
was  her  miracle,  another  the  maidens  that  were 
going  out  to  draw  water,  and  the  disciple  from 
Antioch,  and,  most  memorable  of  all,  the  plan  for 
boarding-school. 

The  miracle  happened  in  this  way:  Aunt  Rody 
sent  her  to  take  a  basket  of  things  to  Nettie  Evans, 
a  "  Sunday  surprise,"  Judith  called  it ;  tiny  biscuits, 
jelly  cake,  and  a  little  round  box  of  figs. 


160  GROWING  UP. 

Nettie  had  had  a  wearisome  day  (very  much  more 
dreadful  than  a  Saturday  morning  in  the  kitchen 
with  Aunt  Rody,  Judith  told  herself),  and  Mrs. 
Evans  thought  it  better  for  her  not  to  go  up  to 
Nettie's  room,  for  the  pain  in  her  hack  was  better, 
she  had  fallen  asleep  and  she  was  afraid  to  have  her 
disturbed. 

"May  I  get  a  drink  of  water?"  Judith  asked. 
She  always  felt  thirsty  when  she  came  near  the 
plank  that  formed  the  ascent  from  the  ground  where 
the  kitchen  had  been  to  the  bit  of  floor  that  was  left 
for  the  sink  to  stand  on.  The  old  kitchen  had  been 
torn  down  this  summer,  and  nothing  remained  of  it 
excepting  the  sink  which  contained  the  pump  (the 
water  came  from  the  well  where  Nettie's  lilies  grew), 
the  window  over  the  sink,  the  roof  overhead,  and 
the  walls  on  each  side  of  the  sink.  She  liked  the 
fun  of  running  up  and  down  this  plank,  and  she 
liked  to  stand  and  look  out  of  this  window  toward 
the  east  It  was  a  window  toward  the  east 
Sometimes  she  thought  about  the  Jews  praying 
toward  the  east  She  wished  once  that  something 
would  happen  to  this  window  because  it  was  a 
window  toward  the  east  A  window  feeing  the 


FIRST  AT  ANTIOCH.  161 

east  in  a  house  was  not  at  all  remarkable;  but  a 
window  that  was  not  in  a  house  brought  itself  into 
very  interesting  prominence. 

And  this  afternoon  her  something  happened. 
There  was  a  wonder  in  the  heavens. 

It  was  afternoon  ;  she  knew  it  was,  she  was  sure 
of  it ;  dinner  was  over  hours  ago ;  Aunt  Rody  had 
helped  her  wipe  the  dinner  dishes,  and  Aunt  Affy 
had  gone  to  town  with  Uncle  Cephas  to  take  the 
week's  butter  to  her  customers ;  and  she  was  on  her 
way  to  the  parsonage  to  sing  hymns  with  Miss 
Marion,  the  hymns  for  church  to-morrow,  and  she 
never  went  till  afternoon.  But  there  it  was.  The 
sun  was  in  the  east  in  the  afternoon ;  round,  peering 
through  mist  with  a  pale,  yellow  splendor ;  she  saw 
something  that  no  one  in  the  world  had  ever  seen. 
It  was  the  sun  rising  in  the  afternoon. 

It  must  be  a  miracle;  a  miracle  in  the  window 
towards  Jerusalem. 

But  the  sun  surely  had  not  stood  still  ever  since 
morning ;  it  was  high  up  when  she  stood  in  the  back 
yard  and  rang  the  dinner  bell  for  Uncle  Cephas  and 
Joe. 

Was  it  a  miracle  just  for  her! 


162  GROWING   UP. 

That  was  the  east ;  it  had  been  the  east  ever  since 
she  was  born ;  it  had  been  the  east  ever  since  the 
the  world  was  made ;  and  it  was  the  sun. 

It  was  nothing  to  see  the  full  moon  in  the  east ; 
the  last  time  she  went  driving  with  Miss  Marion  and 
Mr.  Roger  they  saw  the  full  moon  in  the  east  and  he 
talked  about  it.  This  was  not  the  full  moon. 

"Mrs.  Evans,  Mrs.  Evans,  quick,  quick,"  she 
called,  excitedly,  fearing  that  her  miracle  would 
vanish. 

Hurried  steps  crossed  the  new  kitchen  and  Mra 
Evans  appeared. 

"  What  is  it,  child  ?    Don't  wake  Nettie." 

"  Look,"  said  Judith,  with  the  dignity  of  a  youth 
ful  prophetess,  pointing  to  the  apparition ;  "  see  the 
sun  in  the  east  in  the  afternoon." 

Mrs.  Evans  stepped  up  the  plank,  and  looked. 
It  was  the  sun  in  the  east  in  the  afternoon. 

'•'•  Well,  I  declare  ! "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Evans,  "  that 
does  beat  all  I  ever  saw.  Where  did  it  come  from  ? 
How  could  it  get  there  ? "  Startled,  she  turned,  and 
toward  the  west,  there  was  the  big,  round  sun 
shining  in  all  his  glory. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  with  a  breath  of  relief;  "I  thought 


FIRST  AT  ANTIOCH.  163 

the  world  must  be  coming  to  an  end  It  is  the  re 
flection.  Look,  don't  you  see  ?  the  sun  is  opposite 
the  window.  But  it  is  a  wonderful  sight.  I  wish  it 
would  stay  until  I  could  call  the  neighbors  in." 

Judith  looked  at  the  west  and  reasoned  about  it; 
she  turned  toward  the  east,  then  to  the  west,  then 
to  the  window  again. 

"  So  it  is,"  with  an  inflection  of  disappointment. 

Mrs.  Evans  laughed  softly  and  hurried  back  to 
the  new  kitchen. 

Judith  pumped  her  glass  of  water  with  the  radiance 
of  two  suns  in  her  face 

"  Little  girl,  little  girl,"  called  a  voice  from  a  buggy 
in  the  road,  "  will  you  direct  me  to  the  parsonage  ?  " 

"  Go  on  straight  up  the  hill,  turn  to  the  right  and 
see  the  church;  the  next  house  is  the  parsonage,"  she 
replied  with  ready  exactness. 

"Thank  you,"  said  a  second  voice,  with  a  foreign 
accent ;  the  face  bent  forward  was  very  dark,  with 
dark  eyes,  and  dark  beard. 

Half  an  hour  afterward  she  found  Miss  Marion  in 
her  own  room,  and  before  they  went  down  to  the 
parlor  to  the  piano,  she  and  Miss  Marion  read  to 
gether  in  First  Samuel. 


164  GROWING   UP. 

They  were  reading  the  Bible  through  together, 
Marion  told  her  brother  that  it  was  a  revelation  to 
her  to  read  the  Bible  with  a  girl,  and  an  old  woman ; 
it  was  looking  forward  and  looking  backward. 

Judith  read  her  three  verses  and  then  gave  a 
joyful  exclamation :  — 

"'And  as  they  went  up  the  hill  to  the  city,  they 
found  young  maidens  going  out  to  draw  water,  and 
said  unto  them :  Is  the  seer  here  ? 

" '  And  they  answered  them  and  said,  He  is,  behold 
he  is  before  you ;  make  haste,  now,  for  he  came  to 
day  to  the  city,  for  there  is  a  sacrifice  of  the  people 
to-day  in  the  high  place ;  as  soon  as  ye  be  come  into 
the  city,  ye  shall  straightway  find  him,  before  he  go 
up  to  the  high  place  to  eat,  for  the  people  will  not 
eat  until  he  come,  because  he  doth  bless  the  sacri 
fice  ;  and  afterwards  they  eat  that  be  bidden.  Now, 
therefore,  get  you  up ;  for  about  this  time  ye  shall 
find  him.'  Oh,  Miss  Marion,  that  is  like  me.  I  was 
getting  a  drink  of  water  and  I  sent  two  men  to  find 
the  Bensalem  seer." 

"Even  Saul  couldn't  find  the  way  without  the 
maidens,"  reflected  Marion. 

"  And  they  were  put  in  the  story  for  all  the  world 


FIRST  AT  ANTIOCH.  166 

to  read  about ;  I  wish  people  wouldn't  forget  about 
girls  now-a-days." 

"Who  does?"  asked  Marion;  "this  is  the  girls' 
century." 

"Nobody  ever  thinks  about  me.  I  am  never  in 
things  like  the  other  girls.  Aunt  Rody  will  never 
let  me  go  anywhere;  Aunt  Any  coaxed  her  one 
day,  and  cried  and  said  she  was  spoiling  my  girlhood, 
but  Aunt  Rody  was  worse  than  ever  after  that  I 
cry  night  after  night  because  she  will  not  let  me  go 
to  boarding-school.  Boarding-school  has  been  the 
dream  of  my  life ;  I  make  pictures  about  it  to  my 
self.  Did  you  go  to  boarding-school  ? " 

"Yes,  for  one  year,  and  was  glad  enough  to  go 
home  again.  I  wish  you  would  come  to  school  to 
me;  do  you  suppose  you  could ? "  asked  Marion  with 
a  sudden  and  joyous  inspiration. 

"  0,  Miss  Marion,"  was  all  the  girl  could  reply  for 
very  gladness. 

"  We  will  plan  about  it,  Roger  and  L  If  you  can 
come  and  stay  all  day  and  study,  and  take  music 
lessons,  three  or  four  days  a  week,  it  will  be  better 
than  boarding-school  for  you,  and  more  than  you 
can  think  for  me.  You  have  been  on  my  mind,  but 


166  GROWING  UP. 

I  didn't  dare  propose  anything ;  I  knew  Aunt  Affy 
would  not  be  allowed  to  h?  -e  her  way." 

Both  Judith's  arms  were  about  Marion's  neck, 
with  her  face  hidden  on  Marion  8  shoulder. 

"  I've  wanted  a  sister  all  my  life,"  she  said  laugh 
ing  and  crying  together. 

Sunday  morning  on  entering  church  her  attention 
was  arrested  by  a  large  map  stretched  across  the 
platform,  or  half-way  across  it ;  the  pulpit  had  been 
removed  and  in  its  stead  were  flowers,  a  row  of  pink 
bloom  and  shades  of  green. 

A  tall  gentleman,  with  the  very  blackest  hair  and 
beard  she  had  ever  seen,  arose  and  stood  near  the 
map. 

How  her  heart  gave  a  throb  when  he  said,  touch 
ing  a  spot  on  the  map :  "  That  is  Antioch,  the  place 
where  the  disciples  were  first  called  Christians.  I 
was  born  in  Antioch,  where  Paul  and  Barnabas 
preached  Christ.  I  was  born  in  Antioch,  and  I  was 
re-born  in  Antioch." 

Judith  held  her  breath.  He  was  a  disciple,  a 
Christian  come  from  Antioch.  She  drew  back,  almost 
afraid ;  she  felt  as  if  Christ  must  be  there  standing 
very  near  this  disciple. 


FIRST  AT  ANTIOCH.  167 

He  talked  about  the  beautiful  city  and  made  it  as 
near  and  real  as  this  little  village  in  which  there 
was  a  church  of  disciples.  It  was  like  seeing  one  of 
the  twelve  disciples,  Peter,  or  James,  or  John;  or 
perhaps  Paul,  because  he  had  been  in  Antioch. 

But  he  said  he  had  been  "reborn"  there;  what 
could  he  mean  ?  RE  —  again ;  born  again.  Was  he 
born  twice  in  Antioch?  She  had  been  born  only 
once.  Must  every  disciple  be  born  over  like  this 
disciple  who  was  born  both  times  in  Antioch  ? 

For  a  long  time  she  puzzled  herself  over  this  new, 
strange  thing ;  then,  when  she  could  not  bear  it  any 
longer,  she  asked  Aunt  Afiy. 

"  When  he  was  born,  and  for  years  as  he  grew  up, 
he  did  not  love  and  obey  Christ,  and  then  the  Holy 
Spirit  gave  him  a  loving  and  obedient  heart,  and 
that  loving  and  obedient  heart  is  so  new  that  it  is 
like  being  born  over  again,"  was  Aunt  Affy's  simple, 
and  sure  unraveling  of  her  perplexity. 


168  GROWING  UP. 


XVL 

ONE  OF  AUNT  AFFY's  EXPERIENCES. 

"  O,  Master,  let  me  walk  with  Thee 
In  lowly  paths  of  service  free ; 
Tell  ine  Thy  secret ;  help  me  bear 
The  strain  of  toil ;  the  fret  of  care." 

WASHINGTON  GLADDBN. 

THE  dream  of  Judith's  girlhood  was  coming  true 
in  a  most  unexpected  way ;  she  did  not  go  to  board 
ing-school,  but  boarding-school  came  to  her  in  Ben- 
salem;  four  days  every  week  she  studied  at  the 
parsonage  with  Miss  Marion,  her  cousin  Don's 
"brown  girl";  the  dinner  was  the  boarding-school 
part ;  often  she  was  persuaded  to  stay  to  supper,  and 
sometimes  there  would  be  an  excuse  for  her  to  re 
main  over  night 

Aunt  Rody  thought  the'  excuses  were  much 
oftener  than  need  be;  she  said  "it  seemed"  that 
something  was  always  going  on  at  the  parsonage; 
the  parsonage  was  a  worldly  place  with  games,  and 
company  and  music. 


AUNT  AFFY'S  EXPERIENCE.  169 

Cephas  replied  that  the  parsonage  folks  were  not 
going  out  into  the  world,  but  bringing  the  world  in 
and  consecrating  it ;  she  must  not  forget  that  "  God 
so  loved  the  world." 

Aunt  Rody  retorted  that  He  commanded  his 
people  not  to  love  it,  anyway.  In  his  slow  way 
Cephas  replied :  "  He  never  told  His  people  not  to 
love  it  His  way." 

The  worldliness  was  not  hurting  Judith ;  nothing 
was  hurting  the  little  girl  her  mother  left,  when  she 
shut  her  eyes  upon  all  that  would  ever  happen  to 
her. 

How  it  happened  that  she  went  to  boarding-school 
she  never  knew;  she  knew  Aunt  Afly  cried  and 
could  not  sleep  all  one  night,  that  for  once  in 
his  sweet-tempered  life  Uncle  Cephas  was  angry, 
and  as  he  told  the  minister  "talked  like  a  Dutch 
uncle  to  Eody " ;  she  knew  a  letter  came  from 
cousin  Don  to  Aunt  Rody  herself,  and  that  Aunt 
Rody  did  not  speak  to  anybody  in  the  house,  except 
ing  innocent  Joe,  for  three  whole  weeks. 

In  spite  of  Aunt  Rody,  Agnes  Trembly  made  new 
dresses  from  the  materials  Miss  Marion  took  Judith 
to  New  York  to  select,  and  a  box  of  school  books 


170  GROWING   UP. 

was  sent  by  express,  and  another  box  with  every 
latest  thing  in  the  way  of  school-room  furnishing. 
A  bureau  in  Miss  Marion's  room  was  placed  at  the 
disposal  of  her  goods,  and  one  corner  of  a  wardrobe 
was  made  ready  for  her  dresses. 

Still,  with  all  her  happy  privileges,  there  was  no 
place  she  called  home;  she  said :  "Aunt  Affy's  "  and 
"  the  parsonage." 

Once,  speaking  of  Summer  Avenue,  she  said 
"home"  unconsciously.  She  rarely  spoke  of  her 
mother.  All  her  loneliness  and  desolation  and  heart 
aches  she  poured  out  in  her  letters  to  cousin  Don. 
He  understood.  She  never  thought  that  she  must 
be  "  brave  "  for  him. 

Nothing  since  her  mother  went  away  comforted 
her  like  her  boarding-schooL 

During  one  heart-opening  twilight  she  confided  to 
Marion  about  casting  lots  in  the  Bible  to  find  out  if 
she  would  ever  go  to  boarding-schooL 

"  What  did  you  find  ? "  asked  Marion. 

If  she  were  shocked  she  kept  the  shock  out  of  her 
voice.  She  told  Eoger  afterward  she  was  almost  too 
shocked  to  speak 

"The  queerest  thing  that  meant  nothing:  'And  a 


AUNT  AFFJTS  EXPERIENCE.  171 

cubit  on  the  one  side  and  a  cubit  on  the  other  side,'  * 

"I  am  glad  you  found  that,"  said  Marion,  **1 
think  God  wanted  to  help  you  by  giving  you  that" 

"  But  it  didn't  help ;  how  could  it  ? " 

"  It  helps  me." 

"It  doesn't  sound  like  a  Bible  verse;  it  is  just 
nothing,"  persisted  Judith. 

"  God's  words  can  never  be  '  just  nothing.5  Those 
words  were  something  to  somebody,  and  they  are  a 
great  deal  to  me.  Do  you  remember  something 
Christ  says  about  a  cubit?" 

"  No ;  did  he  ever  say  anything  ?  " 

"  He  said  this :  Which  of  you  "by  taking  thought 
can  add  one  cubit  to  his  stature  ?  You  were  taking 
thought  to  add  something  to  your  life.  Your 
thought-taking  has  not  done  it,"  said  Marion, 
thinking  that  her  own  thought-taking  had  added  no 
cubit  to  her  own  life. 

"  No,  indeed  ;  I  never  should  have  thought  of  the 
parsonage  boarding-school.  Who  did  think  of  it 
besides  you,  Miss  Marion  ?" 

"  Several  people  who  love  you.  If  you  had  never 
thought  of  it,  it  would  have  been  thought  of  for  you. 
In  that  same  talk  Christ  told  the  people:  Your 


172  GROWING  UP. 

heavenly  father  knoweth  that  ye  have  need  of  aH 
these  things:  for  your  heavenly  Father  knoweth; 
that's  why  we  do  not  have  to  think  about  the  cubits. 
I  think  I'll  give  Roger  '  For  your  heavenly  Father* 
for  a  text" 

**I  am  so  glad,"  said  Judith,  with  radiant  eyes, 
"I  love  that '  cubit*  now." 

"  So  do  L  I  will  certainly  ask  Roger  to  preach 
about  our  cubit** 

"  But  don't  let  him  put  me  in,"  protested  Judith. 
a  I  should  look  conscious  so  everybody  would  know 
I  was  the  girl  Jean  Draper  will  be  sure  to  know.** 

"  He  will  not  let  it  be  a  girl  He  will  make  it 
somebody  who  was  superstitious,  and  anxious,  and 
did  not  trust  God,  nor  know  how  to  learn  his  will 
Trust  Roger  for  that.  I  always  know  when  he  puts 
people  in,  for  we  talk  it  over  together ;  he  puts  me 
in  so  often  that  I  am  accustomed  to  being  made  a 
text  of;  and  his  own  mistakes  and  failures  are  in 
all  the  time." 

"  I  thought  mine  were,"  acknowledged  Roger's 
attentive  and  appreciative  listener. 

"  And  Uncle  Cephas  is  sure  his  are  in,"  laughed 
Marion.  "  I  think  it  is  only  the  outside  of  us  that 
isn't  alike.* 


AUNT  AFFY>S  EXPERIENCE.  173 

Very  often  Judith  was  allowed  to  sit  in  the  study 
with  her  books  and  writing. 

Mr.  Kenney  told  her  that  she  never  disturbed 
him,  that  he  would  be  disturbed  if  she  were  not 
there  with  her  books  and  table  in  the  bay-window. 

"  Ask  me  a  question  whenever  you  like,"  he  said 
one  day. 

But  her  questions  were  kept  for  Miss  Marion. 
The  year  went  on  to  Judith  in  household  work,  in 
study,  in  church  work  and  "growing  up"  with  the 
village  girls ;  Nettie  Evans  and  Jean  Draper  were  her 
chief  friends.  The  year  went  on  to  Marion.  June 
came ;  the  new  minister  and  his  sister  had  been  a 
year  in  Bensalem. 

Marion  told  him  that  his  sermons  were  growing 
up,  because  his  boys  and  girls  were  growing  up. 

In  this  year  Marion  Kenney  had  discovered  Aunt 
Affy. 

She  said  to  her  one  afternoon  in  the  entry  bed 
room  :  "  I  was  hungry  to  find  you ;  I  knew  I  wanted 
somebody.  I  knew  you  were  hi  the  world,  because 
if  you  were  not  in  the  world,  I  should  not  be  hungry 
for  you." 

" '  If  it  were  not  so,  I  would  have  told  you,"  said 


174  GROWING   UP. 

Aunt  Affy,  in  the  confident  tone  in  which  she  always 
repeated  the  Lord's  own  words. 

Judith  heard  the  words:  the  wonderful  words,  and 
in  her  fashion,  made  a  commentary  upon  them: 
when  things  were  not  so,  and  couldn't  be  so,  God 
told  you,  so  that  you  needn't  be  too  disappointed ;  he 
wouldn't  let  you  hope  too  long  for  things  and  "build 
on  them  —  that  is,  if  you  were  not  wilful  about 
them.  You  might  think  just  a  little  whils  about  a 
thing,  and  not  be  silly  about  it,  and  if  it  were  not 
so  you  would  soon  find  out.  She  had  found  out 
about  boarding-school — only  she  had  been  pretty 
bad  about  that  all  by  herself,  and  did  not  deserve  to 
have  Miss  Marion  for  a  teacher. 

Was  Miss  Marion  paid  ?  She  had  never  thought 
of  it  until  this  moment 

It  was  "  rag  carpet  afternoon."  Judith  coaxed  Aunt 
Rody  to  allow  her  to  take  her  half-finished  ball  and 
pile  of  rags  up  garret  again,  after  Miss  Marion  came, 
but  Aunt  Rody  sternly  refused:  "When  I  was  a 
little  girl  I  did  my  stent,  company  or  no  company. 
You  can  see  Miss  Kenney  after  you  are  through." 

"  But  I  am  so  slow,"  sighed  the  rag-carpet  sewer. 

"  Be  fast,  then,"  was  the  grim  advice. 


AUNT  AFF1T8  EXPERIENCE.  175 

Judith  and  her  carpet  rags  were  on  the  floor  of 
the  entry  between  the  two  bed-rooms ;  Aunt  Rody 
was  sitting  in  her  bed-room  in  a  rocker  combing  her 
long  gray  hair ;  the  door  of  Aunt  Affy's  room  opposite 
was  open;  Aunt  Affy  was  seated  in  her  rocker 
mending  the  sleeve  of  a  coat  for  Cephas ;  Marion 
Kenney  in  her  privileged  fashion  had  come  into  the 
back  yard  and  knocked  at  the  open  entry  door. 

Lifting  her  head,  Judith  saw  her  in  the  rush- 
bottomed  chair ;  she  had  thrown  her  hat  aside,  her 
face  was  toward  Aunt  Affy. 

Marion  Kenney  was  Judith's  ideal  j  she  was  such 
a  dainty  maiden,  with  brown  hair  and  brown  eyes, 
the  most  bewitching  ways,  and  so  true. 

It  was  happiness  enough  for  Judith  to  sit  or 
stand  near  her  to  watch  and  to  listen ;  and,  this  after 
noon,  she  had  to  sit  in  the  entry  far  awaj  from  her 
and  sew  carpet  rags. 

"  Aunt  Body,"  called  Marion  across  the  hall,  in 
an  audacious  voice,  "  may  Judith  bring  her  ball  and 
rags  in  here  ?  " 

"  Affy  doesn't  want  that  room  cluttered  up,"  was 
the  slow,  ungracious  response. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do,"  said  Aunt  Afify,  eagerly.  "  I  like 
it  cluttered  op," 


176  GROWING  UP. 

"Go  then,  Judith,"  was  the  severe  permission; 
"  you  are  all  children  together,  I  verily  believe.* 

With  a  merry  "  Thank  you "  Marion  sprang  to 
}jelp  gather  the  rags,  and  deposited  them  and  Judith 
on  the  rag  carpet  between  herself  and  Aunt  Affy. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  the  rags  and  the  ball  that 
grew  so  tediously,  there  would  have  been  nothing  in 
the  world  for  Judith  to  wish  for. 

"Aunt  Affy,  I  brought  a  question  to-day,  as  I 
always  do,"  began  Marion,  and  Judith's  fingers 
stayed  that  she  might  hear  the  question  and  the 
answer. 

She  did  not  know  how  to  ask  Marion's  questions, 
but  she  did  know  how  to  understand  something  of 
Aunt  Affy's  answers.  In  her  spiritual  and  intel 
lectual  appreciation  she  was  far  ahead  of  anyone's 
knowledge  of  her.  She  had  a  talent  for  receptivity 
and,  girl  as  she  was,  for  discipline. 

"  If  you  had  read  the  Bible  through  forty  times, 
as  Aunt  Affy  has,  you  would  know  all  the  answers," 
said  Judith. 

"  Forty  times,"  repeated  Marion,  in  amazement 

"I  did  not  tell  her;  she  found  it  out,"  replied 
Aunt  Affy,  with  humility ;  "  I  lead  nay 


AUNT  AFFT8  EXPERIENCE.  Ill 

Bible,  and  Judith  found  dates  and  numbers  in  the 
back  of  it,  so  I  had  to  tell  her  it  was  the  number  of 
times  I  had  read  it  through." 

"  You  were  as  young  as  I  when  you  began,"  said 
Marion. 

"  I  was  twenty ;  I  felt  so  alone  somehow,  that  year, 
I  yearned  'for  it.  I  read  it  through  in  less  than  a 
year,  then  I  began  again,  and  next  year  again,  now 
it  is  second  nature ;  I  should  be  lost  without  it." 

"  What  is  second  nature  ? "  asked  the  girl  on  the 
floor,  among  the  carpet  rags. 

"  It  is  something  that  is  so  much  a  part  of  your 
self,  —  that  comes  after  you  have  your  first  nature 
—  that  it  is  as  much  your  nature  as  if  you  were 
born  first  so,"  answered  Aunt  Any  with  pauses  for 
clearness.  "You  feel  as  if  you  were  born  the 
second  time,  and  it  would  be  as  hard  to  get  rid  of 
as  though  you  were  born  the  first  time  with  it." 

"Carpet  rags  will  never  be  my  second  nature," 
sighed  Judith,  picking  up  a  long,  red  strip.  "  I  wish 
reading  the  Bible  would." 

"  Aunt  Affy,  it  is  only  this,"  began  Marion,  again, 
flushing  a  little  with  the  effort  of  bringing  her 
secret  into  spoken  words.  "I  want  somebody  to 


178  GROWING  UP. 

Jo  good  to ;  I  have  my  class  in  Sunday  school,  and 
that  is  a  great  deal,  but  it  doesn't  satisfy  —  and 
there  must  be  somebody ;  if  it  were  not  so,  I  wouldn't 
be  so  hungry  to  do  it  I  say  it  with  all  humility ; 
I  know  there  is  something  in  me  to  give,  and  it  is 
growing.  But  I  don't  know  how  to  find  somebody." 

Judith's  fingers  dropped  the  long,  red  strip ;  it 
would  be  a  story  to  hear  Aunt  Afly  tell  Miss  Marion 
how  to  find  somebody. 

"  Then,  you  are  just  ready  to  hear  my  story." 

"  I  knew  you  had  it ;  I  saw  it  in  your  face." 

"  It  is  one  of  the  true  stories,  the  stories  as  true 
as  Bible  stories,  that  you  and  I  are  living  every  day." 

How  Judith's  face  glowed.  Was  she  living  a  true 
story  ?  As  real  as  the  Bible  stories  ? 

'•God  helps  and  hears  now,  as  quickly,  as  wil 
lingly,  as  sufficiently,  as  he  did  in  the  old  Bible 
times ;  we  live  in  the  new  Bible  times.  I  heard  a 
woman  once  wishing  for  a  new  Bible,  the  old  Bible 
seemed  written  so  long  ago,  and  about  people  who 
lived  so  long  ago.  We  are  making  a  new  Bible; 
our  life  is  a  new  Acts  of  the  Disciples." 

And  she  was  in  it?  How  could  Judith  think  of 
carpet  rags  ?  Unless  carpet  rags  were  in  it,  too. 


AUNT  AFFT^S  EXPERIENCE.  179 

"  I  like  that,"  said  Marion,  "  for  Acts  has  been 
called  the  Gospel  of  the  Risen  Lord,  and  we  know 
He  is  risen,  and  with  us  in  the  Holy  Spirit" 

Aunt  Affy  was  silent  a  moment;  like  Judith  her 
fingers  stayed  and  would  not  work. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  too  satisfied  to  say  another  word. 

"Aunt  Affy's  Bible  is  full  of  marks  and  dates,"  said 
Judith,  "  as  if  she  were  writing  her  new  Bible  in  her 
old  one." 

"Now  I'll  tell  you  how  I  found  somebody.  I 
wanted  somebody  to  give  to,  as  you  do.  I  felt 
full  of  good  things  to  give.  The  village  was  more 
full  of  young  people  then ;  now  the  boys  go  to  the 
city,  or  away  off  somewhere,  then  they  stayed  and 
married  village  girls.  There  were  people  enough, 
but  I  did  not  know  how  to  find  the  one  willing  to 
take  something  from  me.  So  I  prayed  about  it :  my 
giving,  and  the  somebody.  The  first  thing  I  learned 
when  I  began  to  live  in  the  Bible  was  to  pray  about 
everything  as  Bible  folks  did  —  I  wanted  to  do  all 
the  right  things  they  did,  and  shape  my  life  as  near 
to  God  as  some  of  them  did." 

Aunt  Affy  never  talked  as  naturally  as  when  talk 
ing  to  girls ;  she  felt  that  step  by  step  she  had  been 


180  GROWING   UP. 

over  their  ground.  As  Rody  said,  Affy  had  nevei 
grown  up.  A  woman  apart  from  the  world,  she 
lived  a  wide  life ;  every  day  her  clear  vision  swept 
from  childhood  to  old  womanhood. 

"  Before  the  answer  came  I  read  in  the  Old  Testa 
ment  (for  all  these  things  happened  for  our  sakes, 
the  New  Testament  tells  us,  throwing  light  on  the 
old  stories),  three  verses  in  the  first  chapter  of 
Judges.  How  I  studied  it.  And  how  much  for 
myself  I  found  in  it  —  and  for  you.  Joshua  was 
dead;  the  children  of  Israel  had  no  human  counsel 
lor,  so  '  they  asked  the  Lord.'  They  knew  he  would 
speak  to  them  as  plainly  as  Joshua  had.  They  had 
work  to  do,  as  you  and  I  have ;  God's  own  planned 
work.  They  asked  who  should  go  up  first  to  the 
work ;  the  Lord  said :  Judah.  That  was  plain  enough. 
As  plain  as  he  says  to  you : '  Marion,  do  this.'  * 

"  How  does  he  say  it  to  me  ?  " 

"  In  two  ways.  First  hy  giving  you  something  to 
give.  Then  giving  you  the  longing  to  find  somebody, 
to  give  to." 

"  Yes,"  said  Marion,  in  a  full  tone. 

"  With  the  permission  he  gave  a  prowiae.* 

"  I  like  a  promise  to  work  on ;  I  feel  jc  suit.,*  said 
Marion,  brightly 


AffNT  ASTJT8  XXPERIENCB.  181 

"This  promise  was :  Behold  I  have  delivered  the 
land  into  his  hand.  It  is  given  to  him,  still  he 
must  go  and  get  it;  he  must  work  and  get  it  God 
does  not  often  put  ready-made  things  into  our  hands ; 
if  he  did  we  would  not  he  co-workers." 

Judith  understood.  Aunt  Affy  would  not  have 
thought  of  telling  these  things  to  Judith. 

"  That  is  his  way  of  working  for  us,  working  in 
us.  His  work  does  not  interfere  with  our  work, 
only  makes  our  work  sure  and  strong.  We  speak 
the  words ;  he  keeps  them  from  falling  to  the 
ground.  Judah  was  the  strongest  trihe ;  he  had 
been  made  ready  for  pioneer  work ;  the  first  thing 
he  did  was  to  speak  to  Simeon,  his  brother,  and  say : 
Come  with  me.  He  found  somebody  to  work  with 
him.  But  he  had  to  go  first.  He  chose  Simeon. 
We  may  choose  somebody  to  work  with  us." 

"  But,  Aunt  Affy,  I  meant  somebody  to  work /or," 
replied  Marion,  who  had  a  mission  to  somebody. 

"  There  is  nobody  in  the  world  to  work  for;  it  is 
always  somebody  to  work  with.  We  are  all  co- 
workers  with  God.  The  somebody  you  wish  to  find 
is  a  co-worker,  too.  Why  not?  Has  God  chosen 
only  you  for  His  work  ? " 


182  GROWING   UP. 

Marion  looked  ashamed ;  frightened  at  herself,  and 
ashamed. 

"  How  could  I  be  so  proud? " 

"  Oh,  we  all  can,"  said  Aunt  Afly,  smiling.  "And 
this  brings  me  to  my  own  story." 

"  The  new  Bible,"  said  Judith,  eagerly. 

"  One  day  I  asked  our  Father  to  bring  some  one  to 
me ;  my  life  has  never  been  a  going  out,  for  Body 
could  never  spare  me,  it  has  been  a  bringing  in, 
instead ;  then  I  came  in  here  and  read  about  Judah 
and  Simeon,  and  waited.  The  waiting  is  always  a 
part  of  it" 

"  Why  ?"  asked  Judith  impatiently. 

'^Because  God  says  so ;  that  is  the  best  reason  I 
know.  And  my  somebody  came.  Somebody  to 
help  in  the  work  planned  for  both  of  us.  And  the 
happy  thing  about  it  (one  of  the  happy  things)  was 
that  the  somebody  started  to  come  to  me  before  I 
began  to  ask.  Sometimes,  people  say  things  will 
happen  if  we  don't  pray ;  perhaps  they  will,  it  is  not 
for  me  to  say  they  will  not,  but  the  happening  will 
not  be  in  answer  to  prayer,  and  that  has  a  joyfulness 
of  its  own,  that  nobody  knows  except  the  One  who 
answers  and  the  one  who  prays.  That  is  a  joy  too 


AUNT  AFFY>S  EXPERIENCE.  183 

great  to  be  told.  Sometimes,  I  know  that  I  have 
been  as  happy  over  an  answered  prayer  as  I  can  be. 
And  I  can  be  very  happy,"  Aunt  Affy  said,  with 
happy  tears  shining  in  her  eyes. 

"  This  somebody  was  not  anybody  new,  or  strange, 
or  very  far  off ;  when  I  thought  about  it  there  was 
no  surprise  in  it;  it  was  somebody  who  had  been 
coming  to  meet  me  a  long  while  —  in  preparation. 
Then,  we  were  ready  to  be  co-workers  in  a  very  simple 
way,  making  no  stir,  but  I  trust  our  work  together 
will  not  prove  hay  or  stubble  in  the  last  day.  It 
was  somebody  I  chose  myself;  we  do  a  great  deal 
of  our  own  choosing.  But  it  was  God's  work  and 
God's  workers,  like  Judah  and  Simeon.  There  was 
prayer  first,  and  Judah  using  his  knowledge  and 
judgment.  No  wonder  God  could  keep  his  promise  ; 
they  helped  him  keep  his  promise,  as  you  and  I  do. 
Do  you  remember  what  Andrew  did  after  Jesus 
called  him  and  asked  him  to  spend  that  day  with 
him  ?  '  He  first  findeth  his  own  'brother.1 " 

"  My  only  brother  is  found,"  said  Marion.  "  Now 
some  one  else  may  be  '  first' " 

"  And  I  haven't  any,"  said  listening  Judith.  "  But 
I  have  my  cousin  Don ;  I  wonder  about  him." 


184  GROWING   UP. 

"  We  each  have  our  own ;  whoever  we  find  is  our 
own.  This  is  our  own  world,"  Aunt  Affy  replied  in 
her  happy  voice. 

Marion's  question  was  answered.  Aunt  Affy 
always  understood  what  was  surging  underneath  her 
restless,  foamy  current  of  talk. 

Since  she  had  known  Aunt  Affy  she  had  grown 
quieter;  she  had  come  to  Bensalem  "in  a  fume," 
she  told  Aunt  Affy,  and  the  air,  or  "something," 
was  making  things  look  different. 

Aunt  Affy  smiled  her  wise,  sweet  smile ;  she 
knew  the  time  came  to  girls  when  things  had  to 
'look  different" 


TBE  STORY  OF  A  SET.  185 


xvn 

THE  STORY  OF  A  KEY. 

44  What  time  I  am  afraid,  I  will 
Trust  in  Thee." 

AUNT  EODY  had  a  way  of  bringing  her  work  and 
sitting  somewhere  near  when  Marion  came;  the 
girl's  vivacity,  and  gossip  of  village  folks,  gossip  in 
its  heavenliest  sense,  attracted  the  hard-visaged, 
hard-handed,  sharp-tongued  old  woman. 

An  afternoon  with  Marion  Kenney  was  to  the  old 
woman,  who  never  read  stories,  what  a  volume  of 
short  stories  is  to  other  people;  stories,  humorous, 
pathetic,  and  always  with  a  touch  of  the  best  in  life. 
And,  somehow,  the  best  found  an  answering  chord 
in  something  in  Aunt  Body. 

But  for  that  something  nobody  could  have  lived 
in  the  house  with  Aunt  Rody. 

The  door  across  the  hall  was  open;  all  was  quiet 
within  the  small  bedroom. 


186  GROWING    UP. 

For  the  world  Aunt  Body  would  not  acknowledge 
any  weakness  by  bringing  her  chair  into  Affy's 
room,  or  even  into  the  entry.  She  was  not  fond  of 
company ;  and  all  Bensalem  knew  it.  Cephas  asked 
her  years  ago  if  she  wanted  to  be  buried  in  a  corner 
of  the  graveyard  all  by  herself  and  the  brambles. 

"  Heaven  is  a  sociable  place,  Kody,  and  you  might 
as  well  get  used  to  it." 

Aunt  Affy's  story  was  done,  there  was  no  sound 
in  the  other  bedroom;  Judith  picked  among  her 
colored  strips. 

"I  had  a  letter  from  my  cousin  Don  last  night, 
Miss  Marion,"  said  Judith,  "  and  he  said  he  was  glad 
I  loved  the  parsonage." 

"  Did  he  ? "  asked  Marion,  twisting  one  of  Judith's 
curls  about  her  finger. 

"0,  Judith,  I  know  you  want  me  to  tell  you  a 
story,"  she  said  hastily,  as  Aunt  Affy  slipped  on  her 
glasses  again  and  took  the  coat  sleeve  into  her  hand. 
To  Marion  that  coat  sleeve  was  a  part  of  Aunt  Affy's 
"  new  Bible." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replied  Judith,  with  pure  delight 

"  Judith  would  have  enjoyed  the  age  of  tradition," 
said  Aunt  Affy ;  "  just  think,"  in  her  voice  of  young 


THE  STORY   OF  A   KEY.  187 

enthusiasm,  "  instead  of  reading  it,  what  it  would  be 
to  hear  from  Andrew's  own  lips  the  story  of  that 
day." 

"  We  are  living  there  now,"  said  Marion  ;  "  I  am 
The  title  of  my  life  just  now  is  '  The  Parsonage 
story  of  Village  Life.'  But  the  story  I  want  to  tell 
Judith  to-day  is  an  episode  in  my  own  life.  Seven 
years  ago.  I  haven't  even  told  Eoger  yet,  and  I  tell 
him  everything.  I  think  I  never  told  any  one  be 
fore.  I  used  to  be  at  the  head  of  things  in  those 
days ;  father  was  often  away,  and  the  children  were 
all  younger,  except  Eoger,  and  mother  wasn't  strong. 
We  lived  in  an  old  house  in  a  broad  city  street,  away 
back,  with  a  box-bordered  yard  in  front,  and  lilacs, 
and  old-fashioned  things  behind ;  we  were  all  born 
there,  even  Roger,  the  eldest,  and  our  only  moving 
times  was  in  the  spring  and  fall  cleaning.  Once  a 
friend  of  mine  moved,  and  I  was  enough  in  the 
moving  times  to  be  there  at  an  impromptu  dinner ; 
we  stood  around  a  pine  table  in  the  kitchen,  or  sat 
on  anything  we  could  find,  a  firkin,  or  peach  basket 
turned  upside  down,  and  they  let  me  eat  a  piece  of 
pie  in  my  fingers.  All  I  wanted  was  to  do  some 
thing  just  like  it  myself.  And  when  mother  said  I 


188  GROWING   UP. 

might  stay  all  my  birthday  week  and  help  Aunt 
Bessie  move,  I  thought  my  ship  had  come  in,  laden 
with  moving  times 

"Aunt  Bessie  lived  in  the  city  in  a  beautiful  home, 
but  something  had  happened  that  summer;  Uncle 
Frank  was  in  Europe  and  could  not  come  home,  and 
Aunt  Bessie  and  the  children  had  to  go  into  the 
country  for  a  year. 

"The  'country'  was  only  seven  miles  away;  first 
the  train,  then  the  horse  cars,  and,  then,  a  two-mile 
drive. 

"  The  wagons  from  the  country  came  for  the  things 
Monday  morning ;  there  were  two  big  loads  (every 
thing  else  had  been  sold),  and  in  the  country  home 
we  expected  to  find  new  and  plain  furniture  that 
had  already  been  sent  from  the  stores. 

"  Monday  the  children  and  I  had  a  hilarious  time 
at  dinner ;  moving  times  had  begun,  and  I  did  eat  a 
piece  of  pie  in  my  fingers.  I  was  too  full  of  the 
fun  of  things  to  notice  that  Aunt  Bessie  ate  no 
dinner,  and  Elsie  and  I  were  teasing  Eob  in  noisy 
play  after  dinner,  and  did  not  see  that  she  was  very 
white  and  scarcely  spoke  at  all. 

" ' Marion,'  she  said  at  last, ' I  cannot  conquer  it; 


THE  STORY  OF  A  KEY.  189 

I've  tried  for  half  the  day  and  all  night ;  I  cannot 
hold  up  my  head  another  minute ;  one  of  my  terrible 
headaches  has  come  upon  me.  Jane  will  have  to 
stay  here  with  me  and  baby  and  Rob  —  do  you  think 
you  could — but  no,  you  couldn't  —  it's  too  lonely 
for  you — and  I  may  not  get  there  to-night.' 

" '  Go  to  Sunny  Plains  alone  —  and  have  an  ad 
venture  !  Oh,  Aunt  Bessie !  It's  too  good  to  be 
true.' 

"  Unmindful  of  her  headache  I  clapped  my  hands, 
and  danced  Eob  up  and  down.  It  was  all  my  own 
moving  time. 

"  *  But,  Marion,  what  would  your  mother  think  ?' 
she  protested,  weakly ;  '  of  course  there  are  near 
neighbors  —  and  you  might  take  something  to  eat  — 
and,  if  I  do  not  get  there,  you  must  go  across  the 
way  and  stay  all  night.  The  old  man  who  had  the 
two  white  horses  —  you  remember  him,  said  he 
was  our  nearest  neighbor,  and  he  hoped  we  would 
be  neighborly.  He  said  he  had  a  daughter  about  your 
age  —  you  might  ask  her  —  if  I  do  let  you  go  — -to 
stay  with  you  all  night.' 

"'But,  after  all,'  looking  at  our  trim,  colored 
maid  of  all  work,  '  perhaps  Jane  may  better  go  and 
you  stay  with  me.  And—' 


190  GROWING  UP. 

" t  Oh,  no,  ma'am,  oh,  no,  indeed,  ma'am,'  tremu 
lously  interrupted  Jane  (she  was  only  two  years 
older  than  I).  'I  couldn't  think  of  it;  I  should 
die  of  fright.  I  never  lived  in  a  wilderness,  and  I 
expect  to  give  warning  the  first  week,  for  I  never 
can  bear  the  country.' 

"'Now,  Aunt  Bessie,  you  see  I  have  to  go,'  I 
persuaded.  '  Jane  can't  help  being  afraid  —  and  I 
didn't  know  how  to  be  afraid  —  really,  I  don't  know 
what  to  be  afraid  of.  Let  Elsie  go  with  me,  and 
we'll  do  everything  ourselves  —  have  the  house  all 
in  order  for  you  to-morrow  morning,  and  have  the 
most  glorious  time  we  ever  had  in  our  lives.  My 
Cousin  Jennie  isn't  fifteen,  and  she  stayed  a  week 
over  alone  in  the  country  while  Uncle  and  Auntie 
were  away.  Oh,  do  let  us  go,  Aunt  Bessie.' 

" '  Somebody  must,  I  suppose/  half  consented  Aunt 
Bessie,  who  was  growing  whiter  every  moment; 
•  Elsie,  are  you  brave  enough  to  go  with  Marion  ? ' 

"'Yes,  mamma,'  said  nine-year-old  Elsie,  in  her 
grave  little  way,  '  but  I  don't  know  what  the  brave 
is  for* 

" '  I'm  glad  you  don't,'  smiled  her  mother.  •  Well, 
Jane — I  hope  I  am  not  doing  wrong  —  fix  two  boxes 


TH&  STORY  OF  A  KEY.  191 

of  lunch  —  and,  you  know  you  take  the  train  to  Pater- 
son  and  then  the  horse-cars  to  Hanover  —  I  will  give 
you  five  dollars,  Marion,  you  will  have  to  take  a 
carriage  at  Hanover  —  but  you  know  all  about  it — 
you  went  with  me  to  look  at  the  house  —  and  you 
know  where  to  have  the  furniture  put  as  I  told  you 
that  day  —  and  you  can  get  things  at  the  store  — 
half  a  mile  off  —  Jane,  you  will  have  to  keep  Rob 
and  baby  —  Marion,  I  don't  know  what  your  mother 
will  say  —  it's  well  there  was  a  load  of  things  left 
so  that  I  may  have  a  bed  to-night  — ' 

"  During  this  prologue  my  feet  were  dancing,  and 
my  fingers  rubbing  each  other  impatiently,  I  was  so 
afraid  she  would  end  with  a  sufficient  reason  for  not 
allowing  us  to  go.  I  could  not  believe  that  we  were 
really  off  until  we  sat  in  the  train,  each  with  a 
huge,  stuffed  lunch-box,  and  1  with  five  dollars  in 
my  pocketbook  and  my  head  confused  with  ten 
thousand  parting  directions,  among  which  was, 
many  times  repeated:  'Be  sure  to  ask  that  girl  to 
stay  all  night  with  you.' 

"  At  the  terminus  at  Hanover  we  got  out  and  stood 
and  looked  around.  Elsie  was  a  little  thing,  but  she 
was  wise,  and  I  liked  to  ask  her  advice. 


192  GROWING  UP. 

"  '  Aunt  Bessie  found  a  horse  and  a  carriage  at  the 
blacksmith's  shop  that  day,  didn't  she  ? ' 

"This  was  hardly  asking  advice,  but  Elsie 
brightened,  and  answered  deliberately  :  '  We  walked 
on  a  canal-boat,  then,  to  the  other  side,  for  the  bridge 
was  being  built.' 

" '  Then  we  are  in  the  right  place,  for  there's  the 
new  bridge,'  I  exclaimed,  relieved,  for  I  missed 
the  canal  boat  we  had  that  day  made  a  bridge  ot 

" '  And  we  went  down  that  way  to  the  blacksmith's 
shop,'  she  said  pointing  in  a  familiar  direction. 
Yes,  I  remembered  that.  The  immensity  of  my 
undertaking  was  beginning  to  preys  upon  me ;  I  was 
glad  I  had  brought  Elsie. 

"  With  a  business-like  air  we  crossed  the  bridge, 
and  walked  along  a  grass-bordered  path  to  the 
blacksmith's  shop ;  there  seemed  to  be  two  shops  in 
the  long  building ;  before  one  open  door  a  horse 
was  being  shod,  before  the  other  a  group  of  men 
stood  with  hands  in  their  pockets  watching  a  fire 
that  had  died  down  into  a  red-hot  circle — the  circle 
looked  like  red-hot  iron.  As  we  waited  for  the 
horse  to  be  harnessed  and  brought,  Elsie  and  I  stood 
across  the  street  watching  the  red-hot  iron  ring  — * 
as  iargs  as  a  wagon  wheel. 


THE  STOBY  OF  A  KEY.  198 

"  Elsie  looked  as  though  she  were  forgetting  every 
thing  in  that  red  wonder,  and  I  began  to  feel  a 
trifle  strange  and  lonely,  for  my  little  cousin  was 
so  self-absorbed  that  she  was  not  much  company. 

" '  Hallo,  there ! '  called  the  blacksmith  as  a  boy 
drove  a  two-seated  wagon  out  from  behind  some 
where. 

"  With  my  best  business  air  I  asked  the  price 
before  we  stepped  up  into  the  wagon  and  replied, 
'  Very  well,'  to  his  modest  one  dollar. 

"The  drive  was  beautiful;  Elsie  looked  and  looked 
but  scarcely  spoke.  But  she  did  exclaim  when  we 
crossed  the  railroad,  at  the  tiniest  railroad  station, 
we,  or  anybody  else,  ever  saw. 

"  It  was  a  brown  shed,  without  a  window  even  — 
the  door  stood  wide  open,  there  was  no  one  within, 
no  stove,  no  seats,  no  ticket  office. 

" '  Well,  we  are  in  the  wilderness,'  I  said  aloud 

"  And  then,  the  '  store.'  I  wish  I  could  tell  you 
about  that  store.  It  was  about  as  large  as  —  a  hen 
coop,  everything,  everything  in  it.  I  got  out  and 
went  in,  for  Aunt  Bessie  had  asked  me  to  inquire 
for  letters  which  she  had  directed  to  be  sent  to 
Sunny  Plains.  The  post-office  was  a  rude  desk  and 


194  GROWING  UP,  4 

a  few  cubby-holes  up  on  the  wall  above  it ;  I  saw 
a  letter  laid  on  a  rneal  sack  —  this  place  behind  the 
store  seemed  to  be  both  post-office  and  granary. 

"  '  I'll  be  down  by  and  by  —  you  are  the  new 
people,  I  suppose;  I  saw  your  things  go  by,'  re 
marked  a  pleasant  young  man  behind  the  counter; 
'I'll  come  for  orders.  I  hope  you  will  trade  with 
us.' 

"'Thank  you,  I  suppose  so.  And  I  wish  you 
would  bring  some  kerosene/  I  said,  remembering 
that  I  must  burn  a  lamp  all  night. 

"Along  the  half  mile  on  the  way  to  the  new  house 
were  scattered  several  farmhouses,  then  came  the 
church,  and  churchyard,  and,  on  a  rise  beyond  the 
churchyard,  a  pretty  house. 

" '  That's  it,"  Elsie  said, '  I  know  the  house.' 

"The  key  was  in  the  possession  of  the  white-haired 
old  man  with  the  two  horses,  and  his  house  was 
opposite  the  church. 

"  Elsie  was  too  shy  to  go  to  the  door  and  knock 
and  ask  for  Mrs.  Pettingill's  key,  but  I  was  very 
glad  to  go ;  I  began  to  feel  that  I  would  like  to  see 
the  girl  who  would  stay  all  night  with  us.  She 
answered  my  knock,  a  tall  girl,  with  an  encouraging 


TBS  STORY  OF  A  KBY.  196 

face.  She  brought  the  key,  saying  the  wagons  were 
all  unloaded ;  two  had  come  Saturday  with  things ; 
her  father  had  said  my  mother  and  all  the  family 
were  coming  before  night. 

"  'Aunt  Bessie  was  too  ill,'  I  replied,  glad  to  have 
the  neighborly  subject  opened  so  easily,  'and  she 
said  I  might  ask  you  to  come  over  and  stay  all  night 
with  Elsie  and  me.' 

"  'Oh,  I  couldn't,'  she  answered,  hastily ; '  I'm  going 
away  —  I'm  all  dressed  now.  I'm  sorry,  too,'  she 
added,  sympathetically,  at  something  in  my  face, 
'but  I  can't  disappoint  my  grandmother;  she  sent 
for  me  because  she  is  sick.' 

'• '  Then,  of  course,  you  will  have  to  go.  (Then  I 
began  to  know  what  'brave'  meant.)  Thank  you 
for  the  key.' 

"  Up  the  steep,  weed-tangled  drive  we  went  to  the 
side  door ;  the  boy-driver  unlocked  the  door  for  us, 
giving  a  view  of  the  moving  times  within,  I  paid 
him  his  dollar,  and  he  drove  away,  leaving  us  in  the 
wilderness. 

"  Elsie  stood  and  looked  around  as  usual. 

"  It  was  a  wilderness,  a  wilderness  everywhere ;  the 
two-story  house,  painted  brown,  with  red  trimmings, 


196  GROWING  UP. 

was  set  in  the  middle  of  a  large  field ;  it  had  been 
untenanted  for  two  years ;  the  hedgerows  had  grown 
luxuriant,  the  grass  was  knee-deep ;  the  house  faced 
the  west  (the  driver  told  me  that),  and  the  west  this 
August  afternoon  was  an  immense  field  of  cabbages 
bordered  by  tall  trees ;  above  it  was  the  sky,  beyond 
that  might  be  anything,  or  everything ;  at  the  east 
stretched  a  mown  field,  dotted  with  trees,  an  apple- 
tree  that  looked  a  hundred  years  old  near  the  fence, 
then  a  thick  woods,  over  the  top  of  which  ran  a  line 
of  green,  low  hills ;  among  the  greenness  a  red  slant 
ing  roof  was  visible;  at  the  south  stretched  other 
fields,  among  the  trees  a  white  house,  with  out 
houses,  a  well-sweep;  at  the  north,  beyond  two 
fields,  in  which  cows  were  pasturing,  in  a  grove,  a 
thick,  green  grove,  was  the  churchyard,  with  rows 
and  rows  of  white  stones,  now  and  then  a  white  or 
a  granite  monument ;  the  brown  church-tower  arose 
above  the  tree-tops.  And  this  was  my  wilderness 
for  a  night,  with  the  sky,  the  protecting,  loving  sky 
over  all,  and  bending  down  to  enfold  us  all  into  its 
sunshine. 

" '  It's  pretty/  said  Elsie. 

" '  Yes,  it  is  pretty.  Now  we  nrost  go  in  and  go  to 
work.' 


THE  STORY  OF  A  KMT.  197 

"The  opened  door  led  into  the  small  dining-room; 
small  and  so  crowded ;  as  my  big  brother  said,  there 
was  a  place  for  everything,  and  everything  was  in  it 

"The  front  parlor,  back  parlor,  hall,  all  crowded; 
up  stairs  there  was  nothing  but  emptiness  and 
roominess. 

"The  kitchen,  such  a  pretty  kitchen,  was  crowded 
with  everything,  too  —  and  a  pine  table,  a  firkin,  and 
an  up-turned,  or  down-turned  peach  basket. 

"I  was  in  a  whirl,  an  ecstasy,  an  enthusiasm;  but 
as  somebody  remarks,  nothing  is  done  without  en 
thusiasm;  now  what  should  I  do  with  mine,  that, 
and  nothing  else  ? 

"Suddenly,  to  Elsie's  great  perplexity,  I  gave  a 
shout  and  rushed  out  the  dining-room  door,  and 
down  through  the  tangles  into  the  road. 

"I  had  espied  two  men,  working  men,  in  shirt 
sleeves,  with  coats  thrown  over  their  arms.  Farmers, 
or  farmer's  sons,  probably,  great,  true-hearted  sons 
of  the  soil,  knightly  fellows  who  were  ready  to  — 

"'Are  you — do  you  know  anybody  — '  I  began, 
breathless,  and  with  flying  hair. 

"  They  stopped  and  gazed  at  me. 

"  ;  We  have  just  moved  in.  I  would  like  things 
moved,  and  bedsteads  put  up,  and  boxes  opened.' 


198  GROWING   UP. 

" '  We  can  do  it/  said  one  promptly. 

"  He  had  lost  one  eye ;  th3  other  eye  looked  honest. 

" '  Yes,  we're  out  of  the  work,'  said  his  companion. 

"He  had  a  stiff  neck;  he  did  not  look  quite  so 
honest. 

" '  Can  you  come  now  ? '  I  faltered. 

"'Yes,  right  off.  Come,  Jim,'  was  the  cheerful 
response.  '  All  we  want  is  to  be  told  what  to  do.' 
I  could  always  tell  people  what  to  do ;  at  home  I 
was  called  the  '  manager.' 

"  For  two  hours  I  kept  those  men  busy ;  Elsie,  with 
grave  eyes  and  sealed  lips,  followed  us  about.  I 
tried  to  forget  the  stiff  neck,  and  the  eye  that  did 
not  look  honest,  and  had  forgotten  both,  when  tnere 
was  a  heavy  rap  on  the  open  dining-room  door. 

"  There  stood  the  young  man  from  the  store. 

"  I  had  forgotten  that  I  did  not  like  those  two  busy 
men,  who  never  spoke  unless  spoken  to,  still  I  was 
glad  enough  to  cry  when  I  saw  this  familiar  and 
friendly  face. 

"  I  had  known  him  so  long  ago  I  could  tell  him 
anything. 

" '  H'm.  Somebody  to  help  you,'  he  said,  stepping 
in,  pad  and  pencil  in  hand,  for  an  order. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  KEY.  199 

"  The  men  were  in  the  back  parlor ;  one  was  un 
packing  a  box  of  books,  the  other  was  sweeping. 

"  Yes,"  I  replied  confidently,  "  I  needed  help  and 
I  called  them  in.  I  don't  believe  — "  my  voice 
sinking  to  a  whisper,  "that  they  are  tramps,  do 
you?" 

"Oh,  no.  They  are  hatters.  They  have  been 
about  here  two  or  three  years ;  the  factory  is  closed. 
The  worst  thing  about  them  is  drink.  They  will 
drink  up  all  you  give  them.  Still,  it  was  hardly  a 
right  thing  for  you  to  do." 

"  Elsie's  arm  was  linked  in  mine,  her  big  eyes  fixed 
on  the  young  man's  face. 

"'A  thing  is  always  right  —  after  it  is  done,'  I 
said  desperately. 

" '  Whew !  you  are  a  wise  one,'  he  said  quizzically. 
'  I've  brought  kerosene  —  have  you  lamps  for  to 
night?  Oh,  yes,  I  see  you  have.  Sugar,  bread* 
coffee,  tea,  what  will  you  have  ? ' 

"  I  gave  the  order ;  he  wrote  it,  then  lingered. 

" '  They  are  about  done  for  to-night,  I  suppose.' 

" '  Yes,  I  shall  send  them  away.' 

"  He  drove  away,  and  I  was  left  with  my  hatters. 

" '  You  have  worked  two  hours/  I  said ;  '  what  do 
I  owe  you  ? ' 


200  GROWING   UP. 

"  The  man  with  one  eye  looked  at  the  man  with  a 
stiff  neck. 

"  '  Fifty  cents,  eh,  Jim  ?  * 

"  'That's  about  it,'  said  Jim. 

"  I  did  not  bring  my  pocket-book  down  stairs,  there 
were  two  bills  in  it ;  I  handed  each  a  twenty-five- 
cent  piece  with  the  most  reassuring  and  disarming 
air  (one  air  was  for  myself,  the  other  for  them),  and 
thanked  them,  hoping  they  would  soon  have  work 
at  their  trade. 

"  They  said '  thank  you '  and  'good-night,'  and  Elsie 
and  I  were  left  alone. 

" '  Aren't  you  hungry  ? '  asked  Elsie,  '  It  is  late 
and  dark.' 

"  '  So  it  is  :  we  will  have  supper  in  the  kitchen  — 
and  I  will  fill  a  lamp  to  burn  all  night.' 

"That  supper  was  not  quite  as  much  fun  as  I 
thought  it  would  be  ;  Elsie  munched  a  sandwich 
and  wished  she  were  home;  out  the  window  the 
fire-flies  were  glistening  in  the  tall  grass ;  the  grave 
stones  loomed  up  very  white  and  tall  and  stiff. 

'"We'll  go  to  bed  early,'  I  said  cheerily,  'and  be 
up  early  in  the  morning  to  put  everything  in  order. 
Aunt  Bessie  will  be  sure  to  be  here  early.' 


THE  STORY  OF  A  KEY.  201 

"  Elsie  followed  me  up  stairs  still  munching  a  sand 
wich.  She,  too,  had  learned  what  it  was  to  be 
'  brave.' 

"The  hatters  had  put  up  a  bedstead  and  laid  a 
mattress  on  it ;  the  bed  clothing  lay  in  a  pile  on 
the  bare  floor. 

"  I  made  the  bed  while  Elsie  finished  her  sandwich. 

" '  May  I  brush  out  your  hair  and  braid  it  ? '  asked 
Elsie. 

" '  Yes,  in  a  minute.  Let's  go  down  stairs  and 
look  at  all  the  doors  and  windows  again.' 

"The  fastening  on  every  door  and  window  was 
tried  anew.  We  were  locked  in.  The  world  was 
locked  out.  I  did  not  look  out  again  at  the  fire-flies. 

"  I  sat  down  before  the  bureau  while  Elsie  stood 
behind  me  and  brushed  and  braided  my  long  hair ; 
doing  my  hair  would  comfort  her  if  anything  could. 

"But  what  would  comfort  me? 

"My  Daily  Light  I  had  put  in  my  satchel;  I 
liked  to  have  it  open  on  my  bureau ;  it  was  bound 
in  soft  leather,  two  volumes  in  one:  I  found  the 
date,  August  XV.,  in  the  Evening  Hour. 

" '  Read  aloud,'  said  Elsie. 

::  My  glance  caught  the  large  type  at  the  head  of 


202  GROWING   UP. 

the  page.     My  heart  beat  fast,   the  tears  started, 
but   I  cleared  my  throat  and  read  unconcernedly: 

'I    WILL    ALLURE    HER,    AND    BRING    HER    INTO  THE 
WILDERNESS,  AND  SPEAK  COMFORTABLY  UNTO  HER.' 

" '  Eead  it  again/  said  Elsie,  brushing  softly.  I 
read  it  again.  Elsie  undressed  and  crept  into  bed. 

" *  You  didn't  say  your  prayers,'  I  remonstrated. 

* '  I  like  to  say  them  in  bed/  she  replied. 

"So  did  I  that  night 

"  I  placed  the  lamp,  burning  brightly,  on  the  floor 
in  the  hall  opposite  my  door,  leaving  the  door  wide 
open,  then  I  lay  down,  and  said  my  prayers  in  bed. 

"  Elsie  was  soon  asleep ;  my  prayer  ended  with  the 
earnest  petition,  several  times  repeated  :  '  Please  let 
me  go  to  sleep  quick  and  stay  asleep  all  night.' 

"Then  I  watched  the  light,  and  thought  about 
home,  and  fell  asleep. 

"  A  voice  awakened  me :  Elsie  was  sitting  up  in 
bed:— 

"  '  I'll  do  your  hair,  Marion/  she  said  thickly, 
talking  in  her  sleep. 

"  I  pressed  her  down,  and  covered  her ;  she  did  not 
waken.  But  I  was  awake,  wide  awake,  alone  in  a 
great  wilderness.  There  was  no  sound,  no  sound 


T&R  STORY  OF  A  KBY.  203 

anywhere,  but  a  stillness  like  the  stillness  of  death. 

"  Then  sh  —  sh  —  sh  —  a  hush,  a  soft  pressing 
against  something  —  a  padded  shoulder  against  a 
door,  a  soft  fist  at  a  window ;  then  the  stillness  like 
the  stillness  of  death.  I  was  awake;  I  did  not 
steep. 

"The  soft,  soft  sound  came  again  and  again ;  the 
softest  sound  I  had  ever  heard,  and  then  the  stillest 
silence. 

"  Should  I  get  up,  bring  the  lamp  in,  and  lock  the 
door? 

"  But  suppose  there  were  no  key  in  the  door  —  it 
was  swung  back,  I  could  not  see  the  inside  key-hole ; 
if  I  should  get  up  and  find  no  key,  and  could  not 
lock  the  door,  I  should  confess  to  myself  that  I  was 
afraid  —  how  could  I  lie  there,  with  the  door  shut 
and  not  locked,  and  be  afraid  ?  /  was  afraid  to  be 
afraid.  I  would  rather  He  there,  and  look  with 
staring  eyes  at  the  lamp  and  the  wide  stairs,  and 
listen,  and  listen,  with  my  very  breath,  and  know 
that  I  was  not  afraid." 

"  Oh,  dear ! "  cried  Judith,  with  a  choking  in  her 
throat. 

"  Morning  came.    Oh,  that  blessed  streak  of  dawn. 


204  GROWING   UP. 

I  arose  and  slowly  pushed  the  door  so  that  I  could 
see  the  lock. 

"  There  was  no  key." 

"  Oh  1 "  cried  Judith,  with  a  sudden,  sharp  breath, 
cold  to  her  very  finger-tips. 

"That  day  was  the  happiest  day  of  my  life.  I 
never  knew  before  how  happy  I  could  be.  I  had 
learned  that  I  could  be  kept  from  being  too  afraid." 

"  Only  just  afraid  enough,"  laughed  Judith,  glad 
that  the  laugh  was  not  frozen  in  her  throat 

"  How  I  scampered  around  that  day  and  helped, 
and  scampered  around  and  didn't  help.  That  was 
years  ago,  and  I  haven't  told  the  story  yet  That 
710  key  was  one  of  my  turning-points." 

"I  wish  I  might  have  a  turning-point,"  said 
Judith,  "only  I  never  could  bear  to  be  afraid." 

"  Being  afraid  doesn't  hurt,"  consoled  Aunt  Affy ; 
"you  are  glad  you  were  afraid  after  you  get  out  of 
the  wilderness." 

"What  did  your  point  turn  you  around  to?" 
questioned  Judith,  who  had  learned  from  her  mother 
that  something  always  happened  next 

•":To  knowing  I  would  always  be  safe,"  said 
Marion,  "  no  matter  how  deep  I  get  into  the  tangles 
in  ray  wilderness."^ 


THE  STOBT  OF  A  KEY.  205 

"  Yes/*  responded  Aunt  Affy,  "  we  only  think  we 
are  hurt" 

"  Was  it  all  wilderness  ? "  asked  Judith. 

"  It  appeared  so  to  me.  We  took  a  drive  one  day 
into  another  wilderness — Meadow  Centre  ;  that  was 
almost  more  a  wilderness." 

"I  know  Meadow  Centre,"  said  Aunt  Affy; 
"Cephas  has  a  cousin  there,  a  kind  of  cousin  by 
courtesy,  and  he  is  always  promising  that  he  will 
take  me  over  there.  His  name  is  Richard  King ;  he 
has  just  come  to  take  charge  of  the  church.  Cephas 
says  he  is  a  splendid  worker,  as  big  as  a  giant  and 
as  simple-hearted  as  a  child." 

"  Is  he  old  like  Uncle  Cephas  ? "  Judith  inquired 

"No,  child,  he's  young  like  our  minister.  He 
preached  here  before  your  brother  had  the  call, 
Miss  Marion ;  Cephas  wanted  him,  but  he  wouldn't 
leave  that  going-to-pieces  church  and  congregation 
over  there.  Cephas  told  him  he  was  staying  by  the 
ship  to  see  it  go  to  pieces,  and  he  said  he  wanted  to 
see  it  go  to  pieces,  then." 

a Meadow  Centre  is  a  part  of  my  wilderness;  I 
would  like  to  see  the  place  again.  I  have  a  very 
warm  feeling  for  my  wilderness.* 


206  GROWING   UP. 

"  And  now  you  are  in  the  Promised  Land,"  said 
Judith ;  "  do  people  have  to  go  through  the  Wilder 
ness  first  ? " 

A  warning  voice  came  from  across  the  hall :  "  I'd 
like  to  know  if  your  ball  is  getting  bigger,  Judith." 

Judith's  guilty  fingers  snatched  her  needle,  and 
she  began  stitching  a  black  strip  to  a  brown  strip 
as  Aunt  Rody  had  expressly  forbidden  her  to  do. 

"  They  don't  have  to  stay  in  che  Wilderness,"  re 
plied  Aunt  Affy,  "  their  own  naughtiness  kept  them 
there." 

"  H'm,"  sniffed  the  voice  across  the  hall  "  I  think 
some  people  who  behave  pretty  well  are  kept  in  the 
Wilderness." 

"I  like  wild  places,"  said  Judith,  forgetting  her 
ball  again. 

"  And  naughtiness,  too,"  snapped  Aunt  Rody. 

"  Oh,  we  all  like  that,"  laughed  Marion ;  "  Aunt 
Rody,  I  am  coining  in  there  to  tell  you  a  story. 

"Don't  want  you,"  grumbled  Aunt  Rody,  in  a  re 
lenting  voice. 

But  Marion  went. 

"I'm  sure  you  have  a  story  to  tell  me,"  Judith 
heard  Marion  say,  in  the  tone  Roger  Kenney  called 
"  wheedling." 


THE  STORY  OF  A  KEY.  207 

"My  story  is  all  hard  work,  privation,  and  in 
gratitude,"  was  the  ready  response. 

As  Aunt  Affy  sewed  a  tear  fell  on  her  coarse 
work,  which  Judith  tried  not  to  see. 

Judith  sewed  diligently,  wondering  the  while 
how  she  could  make  a  turning-point  for  herself. 

"  Yes,"  groaned  the  voice  across  the  hall, "  my  past 
is  not  pleasant  to  dwell  on,  the  present  is  full  of 
contradictions  and  being  opposed,  and  the  future  — 
well,  I  hope  I  am  a  Christian." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  are,"  whispered  Judith  softly 
over  her  rags. 

A  heavy  step  on  the  sod  under  the  bedroom 
window  brought  sudden  color  to  Auirt  Affy's  old 
cheeks;  with  her  sister's  groanings  in  hsr  ears  she 
was  meditating  if  it  were  her  duty  to  ask  Cephas  to 
go  away  again.  Was  the  Lord  asking  her  to  choose 
between  the  two  ? 

Pushing  back  his  straw  hat  and  leaning  his  shirt- 
sleeved  arms  on  the  window-sill,  the  old  man  aoood, 
with  his  lover's  eyes  on  the  delicate,  sweet  tace  ol 
the  woman  he  had  loved  thirty  years. 

"  Well,  Affy,  how's  things  ? "  he  asked,  joyously. 

"  Just  as  usual,"  she  half  sighed. 


208  GROWING    UP. 

"  No  worse,  then  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit,"  she  answered,  smiling. 

"Then  I'll  get  a  bite  and  go  back  to  work  again. 
It  does  me  good  to  come  and  have  a  look  at  you 
and  know  you  are  here." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  always  be  here." 

"And  so  shall  I,"  he  answered,  confidently. 

After  that,  how  could  Aunt  Affy  but  decide  once 
again,  and  for  ever,  that  he  should  always  be  here. 


JUDIT&S  TURNING-POINT.  209 


xvra. 

JUDITH'S  TURNING-POINT. 

"No  act  falls  fruitless ;  none  can  tell 
How  vast  its  power  may  be, 
Nor  what  results  infolded  dwell 
Wtthinftsaently." 

JUDITH  stood  in  her  night-dress  and  bare  feet  on 
the  rug  of  rag-carpet  before  her  bed ;  she  was  afraid ; 
she  was  afraid  because  of  Miss  Marion's  story ;  would 
she  go  to  sleep,  and  wake  up,  and  wish  she  had  a 
key  in  her  door  ? 

After  another  hesitating  moment  she  decided  to 
go  down  stairs  to  Aunt  Affy's  bed-room  and  linger 
around,  hoping  Aunt  Affy  would  ask  her  to  sleep 
just  one  night  in  that  cunning  room  in  that  old-fash 
ioned,  tall-posted  bed,  with  ever  so  many  small  pil 
lows,  and  that  red  and  green  quilt  of  patch-work 
baskets  with  handles. 

Slipping  on  the  blue  wool  shoes  her  mother  knit 
ted,  she  went  softly  down  stairs  to  the  entry  bed- 


210  GROWING  UP. 

room.  Aunt  Rody's  door,  for  a  wonder,  was  shut ; 
that  was  one  danger  past,  for  if  Aunt  Rody  heard 
one  foot-fall,  without  inquiring  into  it  she  would 
certainly  send  her  back  to  bed.  If  she  were  dying  of 
a  broken  heart  Aunt  Rody  would  never  know  or 
care.  But  she  did  not  think  it  was  because  she 
would  never  care  to  tell  Aunt  Rody  about  her 
broken  heart. 

Aunt  Affy's  door,  like  the  gates  of  Heaven,  was 
wide  open;  by  the  light  of  a  small  lamp  she  was 
reading  her  "  chapters  "  in  the  Bible. 

One  of  Judith's  names  for  Aunt  Affy's  Bible  was 
"  My  Chapters." 

"  Come  in,  dear,"  welcomed  the  angel  within  the 
gates  of  Heaven.  On  the  threshold  stood  the  white- 
robed  figure,  with  her  long  hair  braided  loosely  and 
ending  in  one  curl. 

"  Just  a  minute,"  pleaded  the  rather  tearful  voice ; 
"  shall  I  disturb  your  chapters  ? " 

"  No,  indeed,  you  are  a  part  of  them,  as  your  moth 
er  was  before  you,"  said  Aunt  Affy,  shoving  her  gold- 
rimmed  spectacles  int  :>  their  case. 

These  gold-rimmed  spectacles  were  her  last  birth 
day  present  from  Cephas. 


}  JUDITH'S   TURNING-POINT.  211 

Judith  thought  it  was  funny,  but  very  lovely  for 
such  old  people  to  have  birthday  presents.  Aunt 
Affy  was  so  choice  of  these  spectacles  that  she  kept 
them  to  read  the  Bible  with. 

"  I  wanted  to  come  a  little  while,"  said  Judith, 
perching  herself  on  the  side  of  the  high  bed,  her 
blue-slippered  feet  not  touching  the  carpet. 

"  I  wish  you  had  a  sister,"  began  Aunt  Affy  in  the 
tone  that  ran  on  a  long  while.  "  You  must  have  some 
one  to  grow  up  with.  You  have  never  had  any  one  to 
grow  up  with." 

"  I  have  Nettie,  and  Jean,  and  Miss  Marion,  and 
Mr.  Koger,  and  everybody  else,  and  you  and  my 
cousin  Don." 

"And  we  are  all  growing  up  together,"  laughed 
Aunt  Affy  with  her  soft  laugh.  "  When  I  was  a  little 
girl  I  had  my  sister  Becky.  The  other  sisters  were 
all  grown  up.  Eight  sisters  we  were.  But  some  were 
married.  Father  would  have  us  all  home  on  Christ 
mas  Days.  Such  a  merry  houseful.  Cephas  was  like 
the  brother  we  never  had.  He  came  a  boy  to  work  for 
father,  just  as  Joe  works  for  him.  Becky  and  Cephas 
and  I  were  always  growing  up  together.  Becky  was 
the  friskiest  thing,  always  getting  into  scrapes  and 


212  GROWING   UP. 

out  of  them.  Eody  used  to  be  hard  on  us,  we  thought 
then ;  but  I've  no  doubt  we  were  wilful  and  disobe 
dient,  and  gave  her  heaps  of  trouble.  She  always 
worked  hard  ;  she  always  would." 

"  Why  ? "  asked  Judith,  with  thoughtful  question 
ing. 

"  Because  it  is  her  nature  to  put  her  shoulder  to  the 
wheel.  She  pushes  other  peoples'  shoulders  away. 
She  does  not  know  how  to  be  helped — not  even 
by  the  Lord  himself.  She  married  off  her  sisters,  she 
said,  and  then  all  she  wanted  was  to  settle  down  to 
work  and  to  peace  and  quietness.  She  likes  to  see 
people  at  church  ;  but  it  frets  her  wonderfully  to  have 
people  come  here.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  I  should 
have  brought  3  jur  dear  mother  back  here  years  ago 
to  stay,  but  Rody  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  She  can't  bear 
to  have  her  ways  interfered  with.  She  wouldn't 
sleep  one  wink  to-night  if  she  thought  that  pile  of 
papers  on  the  round  table  wasn't  just  as  she  put  it. 
And  it  would  give  her  a  fever  for  me  to  sleep  in  her 
bed." 

"  But  it  wouldn't  you"  interrupted  Judith,  eagerly. 

"  Oh,  not  a  bit     Still  I  never  try  it.     I  like  my 

own  bed,  and  own  side  of  the  bed.     But  I  was  tell- 

..*. 


JUDITH9  S  TURNING-POINT.  213 

ing  you  about  Becky ;  she  used  to  sleep  with  me,  and 
no  one  has  since." 

Judith's  heart  sank.  The  room  up  stairs  grew 
desolate  and  afraid  and  homesick. 

"  Cephas  always  liked  Becky ;  they  used  to  do  their 
lessons  together,  and  when  he  went  to  town  to  learn 
his  trade  he  asked  her  to  be  his  wife  as  soon  as  he 
could  build  a  house  to  put  her  in.  Father  gave  Becky 
twenty  acres  on  her  twentieth  birthday,  and  Cephas 
was  to  build  the  house." 

"  He  wasn't  bald  and  white-whiskered  then." 

"  Well,  I  think  not.  He  was  the  handsomest  young 
man  in  the  country,  and  the  best.  And  a  master 
workman,  too. 

"  Then  father  died  ;  he  had  been  queer  some  time. 
Rody  broke  off  a  match  for  him  ;  the  old  minister's 
sister,  a  widow,  a  good  and  lovely  woman,  and  he  had 
mourned  years  for  mother,  and  Becky  and  I  were  glad 
to  have  him  comforted  ;  but  Eody  would  not  give  up 
her  place  to  any  stepmother,  trust  her  for  that  ;  and 
she  broke  it  off  somehow,  and  the  widow  married  a 
minister,  and  father  grew  queer  and  then  died. 

"Eody  had  something  to  repent  of,  if  she  onlj 
thought  of  it;  only  she  never  does  think.  She 


214  GROWING  UP. 

worked  on  Becky's  feelings  about  Cephas,  but  Becky 
held  on,  and  wouldn't  give  him  up ;  so  she  and  I  to 
gether,  when  Eody  wasn't  looking  on,  made  her  wed 
ding  things,  such  piles.  I  enjoyed  it  as  if  it  were  to 
be  my  own  house-keeping ;  I  loved  them  both  so,  and 
Rody  worked  hard  and  was  dreadfully  cross  to  us  all ; 
and  the  cellar  for  the  new  house  was  dug,  and  Becky 
was  as  happy  as  a  queen.  How  she  sang  about  the 
house.  Cephas  had  a  shop  of  his  own  in  town  by  this 
time,  and  journeymen  and  apprentices;  he  was  a 
rusher;  he  expected  to  drive  in  every  day.  He 
wanted  a  house  in  town,  but  Becky  loved  the  old 
place  and  she  was  always  delicate,  and  he  couldn't 
bear  to  cross  her.  And,  then,  it's  a  sad  story  for 
young  people,  but  you  must  know  there's  sadness 
in  the  world  as  well  as  joy — she  died  suddenly 
with  fever.  I  watched  her  night  and  day.  And 
Rody.  She  was  a  ministering  angel.  She  died  in 
Rody's  arms.  Rody  had  been  like  a  mother  to  her. 
Her  things,  '  our  things '  she  used  to  say,  were  all 
packed  away.  Cephas  failed  in  business  —  I  think 
he  didn't  care  much  whether  he  failed  or  not,  and 
came  back  to  the  farm.  Flowers  and  weeds  began 
to  grow  in  the  cellar  of  Becky's  house ;  it's  only 


JUDITH'S  TUENING-POINT.  215 

a  big  green  hole  now.  Cephas  wanted  me  to  use 
her  things;  he  said  Becky  would  like  it,  and  I 
knew  she  would.  He  comforted  me  and  I  com 
forted  him.  Body  didn't  like  that,  and  sent  him 
away.  We  comfort  each  other  now,  and  always 
will.  Eody  can't  hinder  everything.  Why,  child, 
don't  have  such  big  eyes  over  my  story.  Becky  has 
been  happy  all  these  blessed  years,  and  Cephas  and 
I  talk  over  old  times  and  look  forward  to  new  times ; 
and,  we  would  like  to  build  a  house  over  Becky's 
cellar  if  Body  didn't  fume  so. 

"  This  is  her  ring  that  I  wear  —  this  plain  gold, 
the  only  ring  I  ever  had ;  she  put  it  on  my  finger 
and  asked  me  to  be  good  to  Cephas.  He  wouldn't 
take  it  back.  But  isn't  it  your  bed-time,  Deary  ?  " 

"I  wish  I  might  brush  your  hair,"  said  Judith, 
slipping  off  the  high  bed. 

But  a  door  creaked,  was  flung  wide  open  ;  a  night- 
capped  head  appeared  in  the  opposite  doorway. 

"  You  up,  Judith  Grey  Mackenzie.  Go  right  up 
to  bed  this  minute.  It's  just  like  you,  and  it's  more 
like  Affy.  No  wonder  I  couldn't  sleep  with  voices 
in  the  house  at  this  unearthly  hour.  There  1  It's 
striking  nine  o'clock.  Affy,  you  go  to  bed." 


216  GROWING  UP. 

Aunt  Affy  laughed  softly  as  the  creaking  door 
was  closed  again. 

"  I  am  not  grown  up  either,  you  see.  Perhaps  I 
shall  grow  up  with  you.  She  wouldn't  let  me  mix 
the  bread  to-night,  and  she  never  lets  me  take  the 
butter  out  of  the  churn.  And  when  we  go  to  town 
shopping  she  always  carries  the  money." 

Judith  laughed  a  doleful  little  laugh,  and  went 
bravely  up  stairs  to  her  turning-point 

It  was  moonlight,  but  she  must  light  the  candle 
for  company ;  she  would  keep  it  burning  all  night, 
or  as  long  as  it  would  burn,  if  she  dared. 

She  would  scratch  the  match  where  she  liked; 
Aunt  Kody  had  no  right  to  order  her  about  so ;  she 
did  not 'belong  to  Aunt  Eody.  She  wished  Aunt 
Affy  would  let  her  go  to  live  always  at  the  Parsonage. 

Perhaps  Cousin  Don  would  if  she  wrote  and  told 
him  all  about  Aunt  Eody. 

One  night  last  week  Aunt  Rody  had  put  her 
head  in  at  the  door  and  found  her  scratching  a 
match  on  the  bureau  along  the  crack  on  its  upper 
edge;  she  often  did  it;  but  Aunt  Rody  gave  a 
scream  and  seized  her  by  the  arm  and  said  angrily ; 
"  Judith  Grey  Mackenzie,  don't  you  do  that  again ; 


JUDITHS  TURNING  POINT. 


I'll  whip  you  as  sure  as  you  live  if  I  ever  see  you  do 
it  again.  You  might  set  the  house  on  fire.  Suppose 
a  spark  should  fall  into  the  upper  drawer." 

But  a  spark  never  had.  The  upper  drawer  was 
shut  tight;  Aunt  Eody  had  no  right  to  catch  her 
by  the  arm  like  that.  And  whip  her  !  She  wouldn't 
dare.  She  would  go  to  the  parsonage  and  stay 
until  Cousin  Don  came  after  her. 

She  was  old  enough  to  scratch  a  match  where 
she  liked. 

With  a  sudden  indignant  stroke  she  drew  the 
match  under  the  top  edge  of  the  bureau:  a  snap 
and  a  flash. 

"  There,"  she  said  aloud,  triumphantly. 

She  lighted  the  candle  and  dropped  the  burnt 
match  in  the  tin  pail  that  served  as  slop  jar. 

It  was  very  quiet  down  stairs  ;  Joe  had  gone  to 
bed,  Uncle  Cephas  had  not  come  home  from  the 
session  meeting  at  the  parsonage;  she  wished  he 
would  come. 

Then,  the  tiniest  curl  of  smoke  caught  her  eye  — 
out  of  the  top  drawer  ;  no,  that  was  tight  shut  ;  the 
curl  grew  and  grew  ;  it  came  from  the  crack  under 
the  top  edge  of  the  bureau* 


218  GROWING  ffP.N 

Paralyzed  with  terror  she  stood  and  looked.  It 
was  smoke.  And  it  grew  and  grew.  Should  she 
run  down  and  tell  Aunt  Affy?  But  Aunt  Body 
would  hear  and  come,  too.  Might  she  call  Joe? 
But  he  might  tell  Aunt  Rody  the  next  day;  he 
looked  cross  at  her  at  supper  time  because  she 
said  she  would  not  read  aloud  to  him  all  the  evening. 
If  Uncle  Cephas  would  only  come.  But  he  always 
stayed  late  at  session  meeting — there  it  was,  slowly, 
so  slowly  curling  up. 

It  was  real  smoke,  and  there  had  to  be  fire  to 
make  smoke.  The  bureau  would  burn  first  and 
then  —  after  a  long  time  she  remembered  that 
water  would  put  out  fire ;  what  a  goose  she  was  to 
stand  there  and  see  the  smoke  grow. 

She  poured  water  into  the  wash-bowl,  soaked  the 
wash-cloth,  and  ran  it  carefully  all  along  the  crack. 

There,  it  was  out.  Nothing  to  be  frightened 
about  But  she  would  never  do  it  again.  Aunt 
Eody  did  not  know  about  that. 

Sitting  down  on  the  foot  of  the  bed  opposite  the 
bureau,  she  leaned  over  the  red  rail  that  formed  the 
foot-board  and  watched  and  waited.  Of  course  the 
fire  was  out.  Yes  —  no — yes,  there  it  was  again — 


JUDITH'S  TUBNZNG  POINT.  219 

the  curl  of  smoke ;  the  water  had  done  no  good ; 
the  fire  was  too  deep  in  for  water  to  get  through  the 
crack ;  the  spark  had  fallen  away  down  in. 

In  despair  she  burst  into  tears;  but  the  tears 
kept  her  eyes  from  watching  the  smoke ;  she  brushed 
her  eyes  clear  and  looked ;  it  was  there,  and  it  grew 
and  grew,  not  dense,  not  black,  but  real  smoke,  and 
it  kept  coming  and  coming. 

"0  Father  in  Heaven,"  she  cried  aloud,  "please 
stop  it ;  please  stop  it.  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

Still  the  smoke  was  there.  Did  God  see  it? 
Didn't  he  care  ?  Would  he  not  answer  because  she 
had  been  so  disobedient  and  because  she  had  hated 
Aunt  Eody  ? 

"  I  will  be  good  after  this,"  she  sobbed.  "  I  don't 
want  to  be  hateful  I  will  give  up  my  will  to  Aunt 
Eody  when  she  is  right."  It  was  fainter ;  no,  there 
it  was  again.  Would  the  fire  never  go  out  ? 

Aunt  Body  knew  best.  Perhaps  Aunt  Eody 
knew  best  about  other  things.  Perhaps  she  was  a 
Christian,  a  real  disciple,  only  a  very  queer  one. 

Now  it  was  so  faint,  so  faint  she  could  not  see  it 
at  all  It  was  not  because  the  tears  were  in  her 
eyes ;  it  was  gone.  It  was  gone.  She  felt  all  along 


220'  GROWING   UP. 

the  crack  with  her  finger.  It  was  not  hot  And 
the  smoke  was  gone.  The  fire  was  out  ;  it  was  ail 
burned  out  inside  that  crack. 

And  Aunt  Eody  need  never  know.  And  she 
would  never,  never,  never  disobey  Aunt  Eody  again. 
Her  mother  had  always  told  her  she  loved  her  own 
will  too  much  ;  she  would  never  love  it  so  much 
again  ;  she  would  say  —  what  would  she  say  ? 
She  knelt  on  the  strip  of  rag-carpet  where  she  had 
seen  the  girl  kneel  in  her  "picture"  and  repeated 
softly,  through  fast  falling  tears  :  "  Our  Father,  who 
art  in  Heaven  ;  Hallowed  be  thy  name  ;  Thy  King 
dom  come  :  Thy  will  be  done  ;  that  was  it  ;  Thy  will 
be  done,  Thy  will  be  done,"  she  repeated  joyfully 
over  and  over.  "Make  me  love  Thy  will  best. 
Make  my  will  a  good  will,  a  sweet  will,  an  obedient 


She  did  not  know  then  that  it  was  her  turning 
point.  The  next  day  she  loved  to  obey  Aunt  Rody. 
Aunt  Rody  did  not  ask  her  to  do  one  disagreeable 
thing;  and  it  was  the  queerest  thing,  Aunt  Rody 
said,  when  she  asked  if  she  might  sweep  the  sitting- 
room,  "  That's  a  good  girl" 

She  did  not  tell  any  one  about  her  fright  over 


JUDITH'S  TURNING  POINT.  22'i 

the  match  excepting  John  Kenney,  Miss  Marion's 
brother,  and  Jean  Draper.  He  had  come  to  the 
parsonage  for  vacation.  He  was  a  hig,  handsome 
boy,  as  manly  as  the  minister  himself,  and  as  gentle 
as  a  girl ;  one  afternoon,  when  she  and  Jean  Draper 
went  off  on  a  long  stroll  with  him,  and  they  began 
to  tell  stories  of  adventure  of  what  they  had  read, 
or  of  what  happened  to  them,  she  told  her  story 
about  how  the  smoke  got  in  a  crack. 

She  only  said  she  liked  Aunt  Eody  better  after 
that.  She  could  not  tell  about  her  prayer.  But 
John  would  have  understood,  she  was  sure. 

He  always  looked  as  though  he  understood  every 
thing  you  meant,  but  did  not  know  how  to  say. 


222  JROWIXU  UP. 


XIX. 

A  MORNING  WITH  A  SURPRISE. 

••  Routine  of  duties, 
Commonplace  cares." 

F.  L.  IIOSMER. 

THE  years  went  on  in  quiet  Bensalem  and  brought 
Judith  to  her  eighteenth  birthday;  the  summers  and 
winters  came  and  went,  and  the  girl  grew.  The 
parsonage  was  "home,"  and  the  farmhouse  was 
"  Aunt  Affy's,"  as  it  had  been  ever  since  she  could 
remember.  One  July  morning,  in  this  nineteenth 
year  of  Judith's  story,  something  besides  the  new 
morning  was  given  to  Marion.  The  parsonage  under 
the  housekeeping  of  the  two,  the  woman  and  the 
girl,  was  a  dainty,  restful,  and  inspiring  home  to  its 
three  home-keepers,  the  minister,  his  sister,  and 
Judith  Mackenzie. 

The  relationship  am:  ng  the  three  was  as  simple 
and  natural  as  though  Judith  had  been  born  one  of 
the  sisters  in  that  old  house,  with  the  three  windows 


A  MORNING  WITH  A  SURPRISE.          223 

in  the  roof  that  slw  had  made  a  picture  of  for  her 
mother. 

This  July  morning,  an  hour  before  dinner-time, 
Marion  sat  near  the  kitchen  table  shelling  peas; 
she  had  sent  Judith  back  to  the  story  she  was 
writing,  and  refused  Roger's  help  when  he  put  his 
head  in  at  the  window  to  say  that  shelling  peas 
always  meant  two  people  and  a  bit  of  confidence. 

"  Miss  Marion,"  called  a  voice  from  the  kitchen- 
porch  ;  "  I  am  not  fit  to  come  in,  I'm  just  out  of  the 
hay  field.  I've  got  a  letter  for  you  that's  been  laid 
over,  and  a  burning  shame  it  is ;  and  it  is  the  second 
time  it  has  happened.  To  excuse  himself  he  said 
your  box  was  full  and  this  slipped  out  or  was  set 
aside.  I  gave  the  Bensalem  postmaster  a  round 
scolding,  and  told  him  the  parsonage  mail  was  always 
important,  and  if  it  happened  again  I'd  go  straight 
to  Washington  and  report  him  to  Uncle  Sam," 
chuckled  the  old  man  to  whom  a  letter  was  about 
the  smallest  thing  in  life. 

"Uncle  Cephas,"  welcomed  Marion,  cordially, 
"  thank  you  for  the  scolding  and  the  letter.". 

"  I  mustn't  come  in ;  I  brought  the  minister  a 
load  of  hay.  Don't  call  him,  I'll  find  him.  Your 
letter  looks  rather  foreign." 


"  Yes,"  she  said,  trembling  almost  visibly  after  a 
glance  at  the  post  mark. 

"Double  postage  too,"  he  said  curiously. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  again. 

"Judith  had  a  foreign  letter  last  night,  too." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  see  all  her  foreign  letters,"  she  replied 
with  an  effort 

"I  must  go;  don't  work  too  hard.  So  you  like 
to  be  your  own  mistress  and  your  own  maid;  no 
help  at  all  this  summer  ?  " 

"No;  and  once  Judith  and  I  did  the  washing; 
it  was  the  best  fun  we  ever  had." 

"  Our  folks  say  you  think  you  own  Judith;  but 
I  guess  you  have  as  good  a  right  to  her  as  anybody. 
You  and  her  Cousin  Don ;  you  do  the  most  for  her." 

He  nodded,  wiped  his  forehead  with  his  soiled 
handkerchief,  pushed  down  his  tattered  straw  hat 
and  went  down  the  steps  with  a  careful  tread. 
Uncle  Cephas  was  an  old  man  —  his  age  had  come 
upon  him  suddenly.  Marion  watched  him  as  he 
walked  away ;  it  was  easier  to  look  at  the  load  of 
hay,  the  hayfield  beyond  the  parsonage  garden, 
easier  to  look  at  anything,  and  think  of  anything 
excepting  that  foreign  letter.  "Why  should  Don  write 


A  MORNING   WITH  A   SURPRISE.          225 

to  her?  He  had  not  written  for  five  long  years, 
not  once  since  that  letter  about  Judith  from  Genoa. 
Was  it  because  she  had  —  refused  him  ? 

During  all  these  years  it  never  once  entered  her 
thoughts  that  she  had  refused  him. 

He  did  ask  her  to  become  his  wife  —  if  that 
were  asking.  And  she  had  refused,  if  that  were 
refusing. 

"  Can  you  have  dinner  in  half  an  hour  ? "  Roger 
asked,  coming  to  the  open  window  near  the  sink.  "  I 
only  this  minute  remembered  that  I  promised  King 
to  drive  over  this  afternoon  to  talk  his  parish  diffi 
culties  over  with  him.  His  housekeeper  has  gone, 
did  I  tell  you  ?  He's  keeping  house  by  himself  — 
has  been  trying  it  a  month,  or  I'd  take  you  and 
Judith  for  the  drive;  he  would  not  relish  your 
seeing  his  house-keeping.  Don't  hurry  too  much; 
give  me  a  cold  dinner  with  a  cup  of  coffee." 

"I'll  ring  the  bell  in  half  an  hour;  Judith  will 
help  me,"  she  replied,  hearing  the  sound  of  her  own 
voice  with  every  word  she  spoke. 

The  words  she  was  speaking  did  not  touch  her 
own  life  —  nothing  was  in  her  life  but  that  letter  in 
her  hand;  she  had  as  much  of  it  as  she  could  bear  just 


226  GROWING   UP. 

now,  she  thought  she  would  hide  it  away  and  never 
open  it.  It  was  another  thing  to  die  and  be  huried. 

Judith  came  and  began  to  set  the  dinner  table 
and  to  tell  her  the  last  pretty  thing  Nettie  Evans 
said  —  Marion  moved  absently  about  the  kitchen ; 
the  letter  was  pushed  down  in  her  dress  pocket. 

When  at  last  she  could  bear  the  suspense  no 
longer,  she  asked  Judith  to  boil  the  eggs,  and  to 
bring  the  rice  pudding  from  the  cellar,  and  went  up 
stairs  to  her  own  chamber  and  shut  the  door.  If 
she  did  not  have  to  bear  this  —  if  only  it  had  not 
come  to  disturb  her  peace  —  she  was  satisfied  with 
out  it.  It  was  a  long  letter;  it  was  full  of  some 
thing,  her  heart  was  beating  so  fast  and  choking  her 
that  she  read  sentence  after  sentence  without 
gathering  any  thought  or  incident;  it  was  words, 
words,  words. 

"  I  expect  to  sail  for  home  next  month ;  I  am 
tired  of  being  a  stranger  and  a  foreigner.  You  have 
never  written  to  me  beyond  those  two  words ;  but  I 
know  what  you  have  been  to  my  Cousin  Judith.  I 
think  I  have  grown  old  since  you  saw  me ;  life  has 
grown  old  if  I  have  not  I  know  from  the  letters  of 
Eoger  and  Judith  that  you  are  just  the  same. 


A  MORNING   WITH  A   SURPRISE.          227 

Unless  you  are  just  the  same  I  would  not  care  to 
see  you  again.  Tour  old  friend,  Don." 

She  opened  a  drawer  and  laid  the  letter  away ; 
she  would  understand  the  rest  of  it  when  she  was 
not  in  such  a  tumult.  Did  Roger  know  he  was 
coming  home  ?  Judith  had  not  told  her.  Had  he 
told  no  one  but  herself  ?  Did  he  expect  her  to  tell 
the  others  ?  She  had  to  take  her  eyes  and  burning 
cheeks  down  stairs,  but  she  did  not  have  to  speak  of 
her  letter  yet.  And,  after  all,  there  was  nothing  in 
it  to  speak  of.  It  was  a  letter  not  worth  the 
writing. 

The  girl  in  the  blue  gingham,  with  the  yellow 
waves  of  hair  dropping  to  her  waist  in  one  long 
braid,  was  giving  the  last  touches  to  the  dinner 
table  set  for  three;  the  roses  in  the  centre  of  the 
table  were  from  Aunt  Affy's  garden. 

"  They  are  talking  still  —  Uncle  Cephas  and 
Roger.  They  will  never  get  through;  they  begin 
in  the  middle  every  time.  I  have  been  so  interested 
that  I  forgot  to  boil  the  eggs.  There  are  chops  down 
cellar ;  shall  I  broil  them  ?  I  always  think  of  Don 
when  I  broil  chops.  I  broiled  chops  for  him  that 
last  time  I  saw  him.  Do  you  know  I  believe  he  is 


228  GBOWING  UP. 

coming  home  soon?  He  thinks  he  will  surprise 
me ;  but  I  have  guessed  it  all  summer." 

"  Yes ;  get  the  chops,"  replied  Marion. 

"And  you  listen  there  at  the  window,"  laughed 
Judith;  "  Uncle  Cephas  is  touching  on  marriage  now. 
He  told  Eoger  he  did  a  wrong  ching  when  he 
married  Jean  Draper  to  a  man  who  is  not  a  Chris 
tian  ;  she  is  only  nineteen  and  does  not  know  better, 
he  said.  Roger  has  been  trying  to  argue  himself 
right ;  but  I  don't  know  how  Roger  could  help  that, 
do  you?" 

"  No ;  Roger  couldn't  help  it ;  David  Prince  comes 
to  church  regularly  and  Roger  admires  him ;  Jean's 
father  and  mother  were  willing;  I  think  Uncle 
Cephas  takes  too  much  upon  himself.  Roger 
believes  David  Prince  is  a  Christian  and  doesn't 
know  it.  Roger  knows  it;  and  Jean  does.  But 
Roger  never  minds  Uncle  Cephas." 

Uncle  Cephas  was  speaking  with  low  intensity; 
standing  at  the  window  Marion  listened :  at  first 
indignant,  then  she  became  interested.  Roger  would 
miss  his  appointment;  perhaps  he  was  so  amused 
with  the  old  man  that  he  had  forgotten  his  drive  to 
Meadow  Centre. 


A  MORNING   WITH  A  8UBPRISK          229 

"  You  see,  dominie,  in  marriage  there's  a  heap  to 
look  at  besides  young  folks  choosing  each  other, 
even  more  than  parents  being  willing ;  parents  may 
be  mistaken  —  there's  the  command  that  comes 
straight  and  strong.  I  am  as  interested  in  the 
marriage  question  as  I  am  in  all  the  other  things 
that  concerns  the  life  of  the  church  and  the  com 
munity;  I've  had  years  enough  to  study  it  theoreti 
cally,"  he  went  on,  with  his  deep  laugh. 

"Which  command  are  you  bringing  down  upon 
my  head  now  ?  "  inquired  the  minister,  in  a  tone  of 
good  fellowship. 

"  Is  it  the  dominie  that  asks  which  ?  You  who 
should  have  all  the  commands,  and  promises,  and 
threatenings  at  your  tongue's  end  —  " 

"My  tongue  would  have  no  end  then,"  replied 
Roger. 

"  And  the  geography  and  history  of  the  scriptures, 
too.  I  didn't  use  to  believe  in  studying  the  geog 
raphy  of  the  Bible  until  that  man  came  from  An- 
tioch,  and  now  I  know  Damascus  and  the  land  of 
the  Chaldees,  and  Tyre  and  Sidon  all  by  heart.  Of 
course  you  know  better  than  I  do  that  command 
Joshua  gave  the  people,  and  I  verily  believe  it  was 


230  GROWING  UP. 

more  for  the  women  than  the  men,  as  I  told  Affy  in 
talking  over  Jean  Draper's  3ase ;  women  are  natur 
ally  religious  creatures,  bless  *em." 

Judith  and  the  chops  were  ever  the  fire ;  Marion 
stood  at  the  open  window;  Judith  listened,  and 
burnt  her  chops. 

"  Why,  you  remember,"  Uncle  Cephas  ran  on  in 
the  familiar  voice  with  which  he  talked  about  his 
cattle  and  his  crops,  "that  he  told  the  people  the 
nations  should  be  snares  and  traps,  and  scourges  in 
your  sides  and  thorns  in  your  eyes  until  they  per 
ished  from  off  the  good  land,  and  the  reason  was, 
or  would  be,  that  they  made  marriages  with  them." 

"  Yes,  certainly,"  interjected  Roger  impatiently. 

"  But  that  isn't  all ;  don't  say  '  certainly '  in  such 
a  matter  of  fact  way ;  it  was  something  else  ;  it  was 
making  marriages  'with  the  remnant/  those  that 
remain  among  you,  not  the  round-about  nations,  but 
the  among-you  nations,  and  there's  where  the  danger 
is,  I  tell  the  young  folks ;  young  folks  never  know 
their  dangers ;  it  is  the  believers  that  don't  believe 
the  folks  that  come  to  church  and  don't  confess 
Christ,  that  is  the  hindrance,  and  the  ones  that  bring 
punishment  of  scourges  and  snares  and  traps  and 


A  MORNING   WITH  A  SURPRISE.         231 

thorns;  it  is  like  the  half  of  a  truth  that  is  the 
worst  of  a  lia  David  Prince  comes  regularly  and 
listens  to  the  truth,  and  if  I  do  say  it  to  your  face, 
you  put  it  powerful;  and  he  goes  away  and  by  his 
actions  confesses  that  he  doesn't  believe  a  word  you 
say.  I  labored  with  Jean  Draper,  but  she  only 
cried,  like  the  dear  girl  she  is,  and  said  she  couldn't 
give  him  up;  not  if  the  whole  session  said  so." 

"  She  came  to  me,"  answered  Eoger,  in  his  quiet 
est  tones,  "  and  I  told  her  to  hold  on  to  him  and  I 
would  marry  them  if  the  session  tore  me  to  pieces." 

"I  believe  you  would,"  laughed  Uncle  Cephas. 
"  Well,  I've  washed  my  hands.  I  didn't  expect  to 
hinder  anything.  I  suppose  I  can  trust  my  min 
ister  if  he  hasn't  come  to  his  gray  hairs.  I  thought 
that  hay  was  the  first  fruits  and  I'd  bring  it.  You 
see  Bensalem  is  as  dear  to  me  as  the  land  of  Israel 
to  old  Joshua  and  Samuel.  The  Lord's  eyes  are 
always  upon  it,  and  it  flows  with  milk  and  other 
good  things.  No  offence,  I  hope,"  he  added  in  his 
sweet,  old,  slow  voice. 

Eoger  hurried  into  the  house,  and  hustled  Judith 
and  her  chops  to  the  dinner  table. 

"I  believe  I'll  take  you  this  afternoon,  Judith; 


232  GROWING  UP. 

it's  time  you  began  your  vacation;  all  the  other 
boarding-schools  closed  long  ago.  You  will  see  the 
desolation  of  the  Meadow  Centre  parsonage  and 
offer  your  services  on  the  spot.  King  can't  get  a 
housekeeper  to  suit  him  since  Mrs.  Foster  left.  You 
will  suit  him  exactly ;  perhaps  he  likes  burnt  chops." 

After  the  little  bustle  subsided,  Marion  asked : 
"Eoger,  why  didn't  you  tell  him  about  Euth  of 
Moab  —  Judith  and  I  are  just  reading  Euth,  who 
married  one  of  the  chosen  people,  and,  if  Samuel 
wrote  the  story,  he  made  the  sweetest  love-story 
that  ever  was  written  —  and  she  was  one  in  the 
direct  line  of  the  ancestry  of  Christ." 

"Because  that  would  have  been  in  confirmation 
of  his  point,"  said  Roger,  breaking  an  egg  carefully. 

"  I  don't  see  how,"  replied  Marion. 

Judith  listened ;  Eoger  never  talked  for  the  sake 
of  argument ;  he  pondered  before  he  spoke  again, 

"She  deliberately  chose  the  God  of  Israel  to  be 
her  God,  giving  herself  to  His  worship  and  His 
people  ;  Naomi  had  taught  her ;  Naomi  was  a  mis 
sionary  —  love  of  her  mother-in-law  ws  not  all  that 
decided  her  to  leave  her  gods  and  her  native  land." 

"  I  thought  it  was  because  she  loved  Naomi,"  said 
Judith, "  and  that  was  so  lovely," 


A  MORNING   WITH  A    SURPRISE.          233 

"But  Naomi's  son  married  her  first,"  argued 
Marion  ;  "  he  had  no  right  to  do  that." 

"  Perhaps  he  was  punished  for  it ;  perhaps  both 
sons  were  punished  for  it ;  who  knows  ?  " 

"But  you  do  not  think  Jean  has  done  wrong,"' 
said  Judith,  sympathetically;  "it  will  hreak  her 
heart  if  she  ever  reasons  herself  into  believing  she 
has  disobeyed." 

"  Well,  no,"  replied  Eoger,  dryly ;  "  especially  as 
David  expects  to  confess  his  faith  at  the  next  com 
munion.  He  would  not  do  it  before  for  fear  that  he 
would  do  it  to  please  Jean.  He  did  not  dare  tell 
her.  He  has  told  no  one  but  myself." 

"Then,  Roger,  why  didn't  you  tell  Uncle  Cephas  ? " 
asked  Judith,  in  astonishment. 

"  I  thought  he  might  as  well  learn  that,  even  in 
Bensalem,  there  are  some  people  he  may  misjudge. 
He  knows  Bensalem  by  head,  once  in  a  while,  better 
than  he  knows  it  by  heart." 

"  Did  you  say  you  would  take  Judith  to  Meadow 
Centre,"  Marion  asked,  bringing  herself  back  from 
over  the  sea. 

"Did  I,  Judith?" 

"  No,  you  said  you  believed  you  would  take  me," 
said  Judith,  mischievously. 


234  GROWING  UP. 

"I  believe  it  still" 

"Would  you  like  to  go  ?  *  inquired  Marion. 

*  I  would  not  like  to  interfere  with  any  of  Roger's 
beliefs." 

"  Then  be  ready  in  ten  minutes,  or  you  will  I 
fed  Daisy  and  she  has  had  to  eat  in  a  hurry  like  her 
master." 

"  Put,  Marion,  I  shall  leave  you  with  the  dishes, 
and  supper — " 

"  She  couldn't  be  left  in  better  company,"  Roger 
insisted;  "don't  stop  to  change  your  dress;  put  on 
your  big  hat  and  well  be  off." 

"  Marion,  do  you  want  to  be  left  alone  ?  " 

"More  than  anything  else  in  the  world,"  said 
Marion,  sincerely. 


JUMT3'8  AFTERNOON.  235 


XX. 

JUDllU'S  AFTERNOON. 

44  Green  pastures  are  before  me, 
Which  yet  I  have  not  seen." 

"  I  SUPPOSE  King  will  ask  me  to  exchange  with 
him  Sunday,"  remarked  Roger,  putting  the  reins  into 
Judith's  ready  hands,  after  turning  out  of  the  par 
sonage  lane.  "  Which  sermon  shall  I  take  ?  " 

"  The  cubit  one,"  was  her  unhesitating  reply ;  "  it 
has  been  in  my  mind  to  ask  you  to  preach  that 
again  for  me." 

"  But  you  will  not  hear  it* 

"Unless  you  take  me  with  you,"  she  suggested 
with  a  merry  laugh. 

Roger  believed  that  Judith  Grey  Mackenzie  was 
the  merriest  maiden  in  Bensalem. 

"  I  would  if  I  were  going  to  dine  at  the  parsonage, 
but  there's  no  housekeeper  there,  move's  the  pity, 
I  shall  take  dinner  and  supper  with  one  of  the 
deacons,  and  drive  home  in  the  moonlight.  You 
would  like  that. 


286  QBQWUIQ  Ufi 

"All  out  the  deacon." 

*And  you  wouldn't  endure  the  deacon  for  the 
sake  of  the  cubit  sermon." 

"  Indeed,  I  wouldn't.  What  would  they  think  oi 
me?" 

"  That  you  are  a  very  nice  little  girl" 

M  I'm  too  big  a  girl,  that's  the  worst  of  it" 

«  That's  the  best  of  it  —  for  me." 

*  I  don't  know  whether  I'm  glad  of  it  or  not,"  she 
said,  as  frankly  as  if  speaking  to  Marion.  "  The  only 
trouble  I  have  in  the  world  is  that  I'm  growing  up 
away  from  being  your  little  girl" 

"Don't  you  dare,"  he  said  with  playful  threat- 


«  I  don't  dare.' 

*  As  if  yon  could,  Lady-Bug."* 
/    "Oh,  how  that  brings  back  dear  old  Don.    It  is 
the  last  name  he  ever  called  me  —  outside  of  a 
letter.    Don't  you  believe  that  he's  coming  home 
soon?" 

"I  know  it" 

"  Do  you  know  how  soon  I  " 

"  That  is  his  secret" 

drawing  a  long  breath,  "  I'm  too  glad.    But 


JUVIT&S  AFTERNOON.  237 

I  don't  want  to  go  to  the  city  and  keep  house  for 
him,  and  go  to  college  and  have  every  advantage, 
as  he  says  I  must  do.  I've  had  every  advantage; 
you  and  Marion  have  been  my  'liberal  education.' 
Nothing  will  ever  take  me  away  from  Marion." 

"  Or  your  brother  Roger." 

"  Oh,  you  two  are  one.     I  always  mean  you  both." 

"But  hasn't  your  Cousin  Don  the  best  right  to 
you  ?  Isn't  he  your  guardian  or  something  ?  " 

"  He  is  my  everything  —  beside  you  and  Marion 
and  Aunt  Affy." 

"  Then  he  must  do  as  he  thinks  best" 

"  Am  I  not  to  be  consulted  ?  I  belong  t&  myself 
first  of  all" 

"  You  will  be  much  consulted,  no  doubt" 

"  Then  I  hope  I  shall  not  have  to  do  anything  I 
don't  want  to.  I'm  afraid  Don  will  be  like  a 
stranger.  I  was  only  a  little  girl  when  he  went 
away.  I  do  not  feel  at  home  with  him,  only  with 
the  thought  of  him." 

"With  your  thought  of  him  ?" 

"And  my  thought  may  be  very  far  wrong.  0, 
Roger,  do  you  believe  it  is  ? "  bringing  her  earnest 
face  within  range  of  his  too  sympathetic  eyes. 


238  GROWING   UP. 

"  Tell  me  what  is  your  thought  of  him,"  he  said, 
gently,  taking  the  reins  from  her  hands.  "You 
see  you  cannot  talk  and  drive,  too.  Daisy  was 
walking  into  a  fence  " 

She  gave  up  the  reins  without  any  consciousness 
of  the  action ;  she  was  looking  at  her  Cousin  Don's 
face  as  she  had  told  a  "  picture  "  of  it  to  her  mother. 

"  He  is  so  fine,  so  unselfish,  so  true,  so  considerate, 
a  refuge  from  everything  that  troubles  mer  a  part  of 
my  mother  to  me  —  I  have  saved  all  his  letters, 
they  are  my  chief  treasures.  If  I  should  be  dis 
appointed  in  him  the  sun  would  drop  out  of  the 
sky." 

"Poor  little  girl,"  thought  the  man  beside  her, 
tenderly.  "Suppose  you  are  disappointed  in  me," 
he  asked,  lightly;  "have  you  ever  thought  about 
that?" 

"No.  I  cannot  even  think  that,"  she  said,  im 
pulsively. 

"Because  you  have  not  placed  me  on  any  such 
pedestal  ? " 

"  Perhaps  so,"  she  laughed. 

"  Is  that  the  reason  ?  " 

"No,  for  when  I  was  a  little  girl  I  placed  my 


JUDITH'S  AFTERNOON.  239 

Cousin  Don  and  his  friend  Roger  on  the  same 
pedestal.  You  havn't  tumbled  off  yet,  and  I've  been 
with  you  ever  since." 

"Judith,  I  do  not  like  that,"  he  answered,  se 
riously;  "  you  shouldn't  look  at  people  like  that." 

"  I  don't.  At  people.  But  I  do  at  you,  and  Don, 
and  Marion,  and  Aunt  Affy  and  Euskin  and  George 
Macdonald  and  Miss  Mulock  and  Tennyson  and  — " 

"  Then  I  will  not  be  frightened  if  we  are  all  there. 
If  one  of  us  fail,  you  will  have  all  the  others  to  keep 
the  sun  in  your  sky." 

"  Now,  give  me  back  the  reins,  because  I  have 
told  you." 

He  laid  the  reins  in  her  hand,  askiwg  what  she 
had  been  doing  with  herself  all  the  mornmg. 

"  Writing  a  story." 

"0,  Judith,  not  another  one,"  he  exclaimed  in 
pretended  dismay. 

"  I  had  to.  It  was  burning  in  my  bones.  Don't 
you  know  I  got  five  dollars  for  the  last  one  "  ? 

"  Can  nothing  but  a  five-dollar  bill  quench  the 
burning  in  your  bones  ?  " 

'  Oh,  yes ;  the  burning  is  quenched  by  writing  it 
I  am  quenched  now  for  quite  a  while." 


240  GROWING   UP. 

"  What  was  your  inspiration  this  time  ?  " 

"  Something  you  said  Sunday  evening." 

«  TeU  me." 

"  I  will  read  it  to  you  in  your  earliest  leisure." 

"  Do  you  intend  to  keep  this  thing  up  and  be  a 
dreadful  literary  creature  ? " 

"  Only  as  long  as  the  burning  lasts." 

"  But  while  you  muse  the  fire  burns ;  you  must 
give  up  musing." 

"  Are  you  serious  ? "  she  asked,  troubled. 

"No,  dear.  Give  everything  that  is  in  you. 
That  is  what  it  is  in  you  for." 

"I  know  that,"  she  answered,  confidently.  "In 
almost  all  your  sermons  I  find  a  thought  to  make  a 
story  of." 

"You  illustrate  me,  I  am  the  author;  you  are 
the  artist." 

"Then  how  can  I  go  away  and  keep  house  for 
Don?" 

"You  mercenary  creature,  you  want  to  make 
money  out  of  me." 

"  When  I  was  a  little  girl  and  thought  of  writing 
stories  I  wanted  to  earn  money;  now  I  only  think  of 
the  joy  of  writing  things  down." 


JUDITH'S  AFTERNOON.  241 

"That  is  creating— like  the  joy  of  the  Lord. 
May  it  last  forever  —  like  his  joy." 

Judith  was  silent  from  sheer  happiness.  Her 
work  was  so  little,  but  so  dear :  Eoger  and  Marion 
always  understood ;  she  was  no  more  shy  with  them 
about  her  stories  than  about  her  thoughts;  she 
gave  herself  to  them  utterly,  as  she  had  given  her= 
self  to  her  mother. 

The  parsonage  at  Meadow  Centre  was  in  Meadow 
Centre;  it  was  not  in  a  village,  or  a  mlle\  it  was 
not  in  any  place,  but  its  own  place,  where  it  stood ; 
the  church  was  the  nearest  building,  the  post-office 
was  two  miles  distant;  there  were  farm-houses 
scattered  about  for  miles ;  the  most  distant  parish 
ioner  lived  three  miles  from  the  church. 

The  parsonage,  built  of  wood  and  stone,  a  story 
and  a  half,  with  the  trumpet  vine  climbing  luxu 
riously  to  its  low  roof,  had  passed  its  birthday  of 
three-score  years  and  ten.  It  was  old,  and  it  looked 
as  if  it  felt  old. 

The  gate  was  swung  wide  open,  the  path  leading 
to  the  closed  front  door  was  weed-grown,  the  flower 
beds  on  each  side  of  the  path  were  a  mass  of  wild, 
bright  bloom. 


242  GROWING   UP. 

"  How  pretty  I  How  like  a  picture  ! "  exclaimed 
Judith,  in  admiration ;  "  there's  a  grape-vine  running 
up  an  apple  tree,  and  there's  the  old  oaken  bucket 
What  a  pity  for  no  one  to  live  here." 

"Somebody  stays  here,"  said  Roger. 

"  Is  it  the  parsonage  ?  How  can  they  neglect  it 
so?" 

"  Whoa,  Daisy.  The  farmers  are  all  busy.  King 
should  learn  to  use  a  scythe,  and  a  lawn-mower; 
he's  a  born  hermit.  If  he  wanted  to  he  could  find 
a  housekeeper ;  he  forgets  he  hasn't  any." 

"  But  there's  no  one  at  home." 

"Oh,  yes,  he's  at  home.  He's  expecting  me. 
The  study  is  in  the  rear ;  he  lives  in  that" 

"  But  where  is  his  sunshine  ?  " 

"  He  finds  that.  He's  the  best  man  to  find  sun 
shine  I  know  He  is  the  sunshine  himself." 

The  "sunshine"  came  around  the  corner  of  the 
house,  a  long  linen  duster  crowned  with  a  soft  grey 
felt  hat;  beneath  the  hat  a  tawny  beard,  and  the 
bluest  eyes  shining  through  a  tangle  of  eyebrows. 

"  I  had  given  you  up." 

"Never  give  me  up,"  said  Roger  in  a  sunshiny 
voice.  "I'm  always  on  hand,  when  I  am  not  on 


JUDITH'S  AFTERNOON.  243 

foot.  Miss  Mackenzie,  Mr.  King.  But,  excuse  me, 
you  have  seen  each  other  in  Bensalem." 

"  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  Miss 
Mackenzie ;  I  hope  she  has  not  forgotten  me." 

"Judith  never  forgets.  Will  yo'a  let  her  go 
around  and  browse  while  we  have  our  drive  ? 
Judith,  you  don't  mind  staying  alone  ? " 

"  It  is  not  a  very  nice  place  for  a  lady  to  stay  in," 
the  bachelor  housekeeper  hastened  to  say ;  "  I  fear 
I  forget  when  sweeping-day  comes,  and  I  always 
forget  to  wash  the  dishes." 

"Judith  will  do  that  for  you.  Don't  forget, 
Judith,"  he  warned. 

"  The  woman  who  comes  once  a  week  is  ill,  and 
has  not  been  here  for  two  weeks;  I  am  really 
ashamed  to  have  Miss  Judith  come  into  the  house." 

"  She  isn't  ashamed,  she  likes  it.  Give  her  your 
hand,  Dick,  and  help  her  out ;  I  must  hold  Daisy." 

Judith  stepped  down  and  stood  beside  the  linen 
duster  and  gray  hat,  fervently  wishing  she  had 
stayed  at  home. 

"  Eoger,  how  long  will  you  be  gone  ?  "  she  inquired, 
faint-heartedly. 

"  'Till  supper-time — we  have  business  on  hand  — 


244  GROWING   UP. 

if  you  don't  have  supper  ready  for  us  I'll  lose  you 
on  the  way  home." 

"  There's  bread  in  the  house,  and  butter  and  milk 
and  eggs  —  but  the  dishes  — ,"  excused  the  em 
barrassed  housekeeper. 

"  Trust  a  girl  to  wash  dishes.  Will  you  wear  that 
duster  ? " 

"  I  have  a  coat  under  it.  Wait  until  I  show  Miss 
Judith  in ;  my  study  is  the  only  fit  place." 

"  Show  her  the  kitchen,  there's  where  you  need  a 
visitor." 

"  The  front  door  is  locked,"  apologized  Mr.  King. 
"  I  am  sorry  to  take  you  to  the  back  hall  door." 

Judith's  courtesy  and  kindliness  failed  her;  Eoger 
deserved  a  scolding  for  bringing  her  to  such  a 
forlorn  place;  what  could  she  do  with  herself  two 
or  three  hours  ? 

The  doorway  into  which  she  was  shown  led  into 
a  narrow  carpeted  hall ;  the  study  door  stood  open ; 
books  in  book-cases,  on  the  floor,  on  a  table,  books 
and  dust,  a  coat  on  a  chair;  the  light  from  two 
windows  streamed  in. 

"  If  you  care  for  books  you  will  find  something  to 
do — the  latest  magazines  are  somewhere.  My  house- 


JUDITH'S  AFTERNOON.  245 

keeper  had  to  leave  suddenly,  and  to  get  another 
has  been  impossible.  I  wish  I  might  make  you 
comfortable.  I'd  like  to  put  Kenney  under  the 
pump  for  bringing  you.  Would  you  rather  I  would 
take  you  to  a  neighbor  ? "  he  asked,  brightening. 

"  Oh,  no ;  I  like  it  —  I  shall  like  it,  —  here,  in  a 
few  minutes,"  she  said  with  fervent  kindliness. 

"  Don't  get  us  any  supper ;  Mr.  Kenney  was  only 
joking,"  he  added  as  he  disappeared. 

It  was  rather  a  cruel  kind  of  a  joke,  she  thought, 
as  Daisy  sped  down  the  road ;  she  would  run  away 
and  walk  home,  seven  miles,  if  she  dared.  But 
Eoger  would  be  hurt;  he  had  brought  her  for  the 
drive,  and  had  no  idea  of  the  dismalness  of  the 
desolate  old  place. 

She  threw  off  hat  and  gloves,  and  braced  herself 
for  action  of  some  kind.  Eoger  would  expect 
supper.  It  was  not  difficult  to  find  the  kitchen ; 
there  was  no  fire,  a  fire  could  hardly  be  expected ; 
there  appeared  to  be  nothing  in  the  room  but  piles 
and  piles  of  dirty  dishes.  There  were  kindlings  in  a 
basket  near  the  stove,  and  wood  in  the  box  behind 
the  stove ;  there  was  a  sink  and  a  pump ;  with  fire 
and  water  she  could  wash  dishes. 


246  GROWING  UP. 

If  Marion  had  only  come,  too,  what  fun  it  would 
have  been.  It  would  be  rather  desolate  fun  all 
alone. 

She  discovered  soap  in  a  dish  on  the  sink,  and 
towels,  clean  towels,  hanging  on  a  heavy  cord  beliind 
the  stove.  The  room,  like  the  study,  was  flooded 
with  the  afternoon  sunshine.  And  there  were 
pictures  out  of  the  window;  she  had  never  yet 
found  a  window  that  did  not  frame  a  picture.  She 
could  not  be  lonely  with  pictures  and  sunshine. 

In  five  minutes  the  wood  fire  was  crackling ;  the 
sunshine  and  the  fire  were  two  companions  she 
loved,  and  then,  Marion  often  laughed  at  her 
enthusiasm  for  washing  dishes.  For  once  in  her 
life,  she  would  tell  Marion,  she  had  dishes  enough  to 
wash. 

If  she  might  only  heat  the  oven  and  make  biscuits. 
That  would  be  a  surprise.  With  a  feeling  that  she 
was  intruding  she  opened  a  closet  door;  a  loaf  of 
bread,  a  plate  of  butter,  a  paper  of  soda  crackers,  a 
small  basket  of  eggs,  a  tin  quart  of  milk,  a  bag  of 
salt  was  the  quick  inventory  she  made  —  then  she 
found  a  bag  of  flour  on  the  floor,  a  basket  of  potatoes, 
a  ham  from  which  slices  had  been  cut,  and  a  jug 


JUDITH'S  AFTERNOON.  247 

of  molasses.  Hot  biscuits,  ham  and  eggs,  coffee, 
there  must  be  coffee;  what  a  splendid  supper  she 
might  have.  There  were  no  remains  of  a  dinner; 
perhaps  he  had  forgotten  to  get  any  dinner,  or  he 
might  have  been  invited  out;  he  should  have  one 
supper  —  if  there  were  only  time. 

Eoger  told  her  once  that  she  had  the  feet  and 
fingers  of  a  fairy ;  she  said  to  herself  that  she 
needed  them  that  afternoon. 

At  that  very  moment  when  feet  and  fingers  were 
busy  in  his  kitchen,  how  her  young  enthusiasm 
would  have  been  kindled  could  she  have  heard  the 
story  he  was  telling  Eoger. 

"  It  has  been  a  tug  for  me,  something  to  go  through 
with.  You  do  not  know  unless  you  have  had 
something  of  the  sort  happen  to  you.  It  may  end 
in  my  going  away.  She  is  everything  to  be  desired, 
and  more  than  I  deserve.  A  splendid  looking  girl, 
a  college  graduate,  just  the  wife  for  a  minister,  keen 
as  a  flash,  quick  at  repartee,  as  spicy  as  a  magazine 
article,  born  to  command,  a  perfect  lady,  with  a 
winning  manner,  and  I  can't  love  her  if  it  kills  me. 
I've  been  down  on  my  knees  begging  the  Lord  to 
make  me  love  her :  and  she  is  no  more  to  me  than  a 


248  GROWING   UP. 

picture,  or  a  statue,  or  a  character  in  a  book.  It 
unmans  me  to  feel  how  her  heart  has  gone  out  to 
me.  She  is  as  brave  about  it  as  she  can  be." 

"How,  in  the  name  of  wonder,  do  you  know  it 
then  ? "  asked  Eoger,  in  astonishment. 

"  I  know  it  because  I  cannot  help  knowing  it.  If 
you  do  not  know  how  I  know  it  I  cannot  tell  you. 
Her  mother  knows  it,  and  how  she  watches  me. 
They  say  Frederick  Eobertson  married  in  a  like  way ; 
he  was  afraid  he  had  been  dishonorable.  But  this  is 
none  of  my  doing." 

"  I  can  believe  that,  old  fellow." 

"What  am  I  to  do?" 

"  Steer  clear  of  her." 

"  All  my  steering  will  not  keep  me  clear  of  her. 
We  are  constantly  brought  together." 

"  Introduce  me.     You  will  be  nowhere." 

Eichard  King  would  not  laugh ;  the  very  telling 
his  trouble  appeared  treason  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  know  what  is  the  matter,"  ejaculated  Eoger, 
suddenly.  "You  have  seen  some  other  woman,  or 
you  would  succumb." 

"  I  have  seen  several  other  women,"  he  said,  think 
ing  only  of  one,  —  the  girl  with  a  blind  mother  in 
Bensalem. 


JUDITH'S  AFTERNOON.  249 

"  Don't  let  it  drive  you  away  from  your  work" 

"  I  think  she  may  go  away.  I  think  her  mother 
will  send  her  away.  I  think  I  would  rather  face 
the  cannon's  mouth  than  be  left  alone  half  an  hour 
with  that  old  lady." 

"  Does  she  blame  you  ? " 

"  Not  if  she  has  the  common  sense  I  think  she  has. 
I  am  the  last  man  for  a  girl  to  fall  in  love  with,"  he 
added,  ruefully. 

"Don't  count  too  much  on  that,"  advised  Eoger, 
gravely. 

At  six  o'clock  Daisy  was  driven  around  to  the 
stable  to  be  fed;  Judith  was  taking  her  molasses 
cake  from  the  oven  and  heeded  neither  voices  nor 
footsteps. 

"I  told  you  so,"  cried  Roger,  delighted,  coming 
to  the  kitchen  doorway.  "  See  here,  King,  and  look 
here,  and  smell  here." 

"  Well,  I  think  so,"  exclaimed  the  bachelor  house 
keeper  in  dismay  and  delight. 

"  Table  set,  too,"  declared  Roger,  stepping  into  the 
tiny  dining-room.  "No  table-cloth;  how  is  that, 
Judith  ? " 

"  I  couldn't  look  around  for  things,"  said  Judith, 


250  GROWING   UP. 

flushing;  "I  was  afraid  every  minute  of  intruding. 
I  haven't  looked  into  places  any  more  than  I  could 
help." 

"  Miss  Judith,  I  am  ashamed  —  " 

"You  are  grateful,  you  lucky  dog,"  interrupted 
Roger.  "  We  are  as  hungry  as  tramps,  Judith ;  our 
host  stopped  at  the  store  and  bought  sugar  cakes 
and  cheese  to  treat  us  on,  not  knowing  the  feast  he 
was  bringing  his  guest  home  to." 

Biscuits,  molasses  cake,  ham  and  eggs  and  coffee. 

Judith's  eyes  were  demure  and  satisfied  ;  she  had 
never  had  such  a  good  time  in  her  life. 

"  I  can  get  you  a  table-cloth  if  it  will  not  be  too 
much  trouble  to  reset  the  table,"  proposed  the  host 
as  unembarrassed  as  his  visitors  could  desire. 

"  Please  don't,"  said  Judith,  "  unless  for  your  own 
convenience." 

"I  acknowledge  I  haven't  seen  a  table-cloth  on 
my  own  table  since  I  have  been  my  own  house 
keeper:  but  we  must  have  napkins.  I  cannot  do 
without  napkins  unless  I  am  camping  out." 

Judith  was  placed  at  the  head  of  the  table,  she 
accepted  the  position  as  naturally  as  she  did  at  the 
Bensalem  parsonage  when  she  was  left  to  be  the 


JUDITH'S  AFTERNOON.  251 

lady  of  the  house ;  she  poured  the  delicious  coffee, 
ate  her  biscuits  with  a  perfect  relish,  and  listened  to 
story,  repartee,  experiences,  plans  for  work  with  an 
appreciation  that  added  zest  to  the  conversation. 

"  Well,  Judith,  what  do  you  think  of  your  after 
noon  ?  "  inquired  Roger,  when  Daisy  was  trotting 
the  second  mile  toward  home. 

"I  never  had  any  tiling  like  it.  I  didn't  mind 
washing  the  supper  dishes  with  you  looking  on  ;  but 
I  did  mind  having  him  in  the  kitchen." 

"  He  couldn't  stay  out ;  it  was  nuts  for  him.  He's 
a  first-rate  camper,  but  housekeeping  is  one  too 
many  for  him.  He  is  one  too  many  for  himself. 
He  wishes  to  be  near  the  church,  so  he  will  not  try 
to  find  board  anywhere." 

"  Hasn't  he  a  sister,  or  cousin,  or  somebody  ?  " 

"  He  hasn't  anybody.  He  wants  to  bring  a  family 
to  the  parsonage  —  he  might  have  had  one  for  the 
summer  if  he  had  known  he  would  lose  his  house 
keeper  in  time.  He  will  make  a  break  and  do  some 
thing.  What  do  you  think  of  him  ?" 

"If  I  hadn't  seen  that  dreadful  study,  and  that 
kitchen  —  " 

"  Did  you  go  up  stairs  I " 


252  GROWING   UP. 

"  Why,  no.  Did  you  think  I  would  do  that  ?  I 
felt  myself  an  intruder  every  minute.  You  didn't 
think  I  would  do  that,  Eoger." 

"  Well,  no ;  now  I  come  to  think  of  it" 
"  If  I  had  met  him  away  —  but  he  is  so  much  a 
part  of  that  kitchen  and  study,  that  I'm  afraid  I 
shall  not  be  fair  to  him.  At  first  he  was  nothing 
but  big,  to  me ;  big  and  ashamed ;  then  nothing  but 
red  beard  and  eyebrows,  and  then  eyes ;  his  voice  is  as 
big  as  he  is.  I  liked  his  sermon  that  other  time  you 
exchanged ;  he  is  a  man  in  earnest." 

"  A  man  burning  with  enthusiasm  !  He  came  to 
Meadow  Centre  —  his  parish  covers  three  miles  in 
two  directions,  —  only  because  he  was  needed  there. 
He  refused  twice  the  salary,  a  pitiful  little  salary  it 
is,  that  he  might  try  to  bring  that  church  back,  — 
to  keep  it  from  being  swallowed  up ;  his  father 
was  born  there  —  he  has  a  love  for  the  church  and 
people ;  we  passed  a  deserted  church  on  the  way 
here,  a  mile  ahead  of  us;  Meadow  Centre  will  be 
another  deserted  church  before  many  years  —  there 
are  deserted  farms  in  this  neighborhood." 

"  But  the  people  will  find  a  church  somewhere." 
"There's  a  new   church  where    we    went   this 


JUDITH'S  AFTERNOON.  253 

afternoon ;  it  is  taking  his  people,  his  grandfather's 
people."* 

"  I  should  think  it  would.  The  church  is  out  of 
repair  —  there's  nothing  pretty  about  it.  I  don't 
believe  he  can  keep  the  people  together." 

"Then  he  will  help  them  scatter.  He  will  do 
something  for  them.  He  wanted  this  experience, 
and  he  could  afford  to  take  it." 

"Did  you  promise  to  exchange  Sunday  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  will  drive  home  after  evening  service.  He 
will  stay  over  night  with  us.  I  wish  we  might  keep 
him  a  week.  He  took  me  to  see  a  place  for  a  new 
church.  He  is  a  born  organizer  —  " 

"  Outside  of  the  kitchen,"  laughed  Judith. 

"  I  wish  he  had  a  wife,"  said  Eoger. 

"  Not  for  such  a  reason  —  to  keep  house  for  him," 
replied  Judith,  in  a  flash  of  indignation. 

"His  grandfather  and  father  were  born  in  Scot 
land  —  on  his  mother's  side  he  has  Scotch  grit. 
He'll  pull  himself  through,  but  it's  rather  tough  on 
him.  He  makes  me  feel  like  a  pampered  baby.  He 
worked  his  way  through  college;  he  has  fed  on 
thistles  and  he  shows  it.  I  wish  I  had,"  said  Koger 
devoutly. 


264  GROWING  UP. 

u  Is  it  too  late  ?  "  asked  Judith  teazingly. 

"I  feel  so  small  beside  him,"  Koger  went  on 
discontentedly ;  "  he  is  the  biggest  and  best  fellow  I 
know." 

"  Roger,  Roger,  you  tell  me  not  to  seek  hard  things 
for  myself." 

Roger  lapsed  into  silence.  Judith  wondered  if 
she  might  not  put  her  afternoon  into  her  next  story 
Sometime  what  a  pretty  book  she  would  make  out  of 
her  short  stories.  She  would  call  it :  "A  Child's 
Outlook."  But  that  would  be  too  grown  up  for 
children.  Her  stories  were  for  children,  as  well  as 
about  children.  Marion  had  planned  a  summer  of 
writing  for  her ;  she  had  the  "  plots  "  for  five  stories 
in  her  head;  she  had  told  them  8,11  to  Marion  as 
she  used  to  tell  her  mother  pictures  ;  they  were,  all 
of  them,  founded  on  her  own  childish  experiences ; 
her  childhood  had  been  full  of  things  —  Marion  said 
her  own  childhood  had  not  been  so  full.  Every  day 
when  she  was  a  child  had  been  a  story.  Telling  her 
mother  pictures  had  helped  make  her  stories.  She 
used  to  tell  her  mother  stories  about  herself. 

"  You  are  too  young  to  look  back  to  your  child 
hood,"  Roger  had  once  told  her ;  "  that  comes  with 
age." 


JUDITH'S  AFTERNOON.  255 

"  Mother  made  it  so  real  —  she  impressed  me 
with  its  happenings.  She  made  things  happen,  I 
understand  now,  because  she  was  going  away  so 
soon.  She  used  to  say,  '  I  want  you  to  look  back 
and  remember  this.'  And  I  read  aloud  to  her  the 
journal  she  asked  me  to  keep  the  last  three  vears  — 
I  draw  upon  that  now." 

A  summer  of  stories.  She  laughed  aloud  in  her 
joy.  She  wished  she  might  take  her  book  of  stories 
to  Heaven  to  show  to  her  mother. 


256  GROWING  UP. 


XXL 

MARION'S  AFTERNOON. 

*  Only  the  present  is  thy  part  and  fee, 
And  happy  thou, 

If,  though  thou  didst  not  beat  thy  future  bro* 
Thou  couldst  well  see 
What  present  things  required  of  thee." 

GEORGE  HERBERT, 

MORE  than  anything  else  in  the  world  Marion 
wished  to  be  alone  that  afternoon.  If  it  were  pos 
sible  she  wished  to  understand  herself.  She  closed 
the  study  blinds,  and,  in  the  dim  light  drew  Roger's 
study  chair  to  the  table;  and,  sitting  down,  bent 
forward,  leaning  her  head  on  the  table. 

What  did  she  wish  to  understand  ?  She  wished  to 
know  if  the  years  had  burnt  out  that  impulse  of 
friendship,  or  love,  she  had,  then,  toward  Roger's 
friend,  and  her  own  friend ;  she  was  as  light-hearted 
to-day,  but  for  the  shame  of  it,  as  if  she  had  never 
known  him  so  pleasantly  and  familiarly ;  her  excite 
ment  over  the  letter  was  —  what  was  it? 


MARION'S  AFTERNOON.  257 

If  lie  should  enter  now  she  would  he  startled, 
she  would  he  startled  because  of  that  shame,  because 
of  those  words  that  had  spoken  the  truth  to  him ; 
she  had  read  his  letters  to  Judith  week  after  week 
all  these  years ;  they  were  delightful  letters,  he  put 
himself  into  them ;  Judith  had  written  him  that  she 
always  showed  them  to  her ;  she  did  not  often  read 
the  letters  Judith  wrote  to  him. 

If  she  knew  that  he  were  coming  back  to — but, 
why  should  he  ?  He  had  not  cared  beyond  friendli 
ness  then  ;  there  was  no  reason  that  he  should  care 
beyond  friendliness  to-day.  She  was  just  the  same ; 
not  any  prettier,  not  any  more  attractive ;  she  was 
only  a  busy  worker  in  her  brother's  small  parish. 
Girls  always  had  lovers,  she  supposed;  before  she 
had  a  thought  of  it  David  Prince  asked  her  to  marry 
him,  and  she  refused  instantly  with  no  thought  but 
surprise ;  there  had  been  no  one  else ;  she  was  twenty- 
one  when  she  thought  she  cared  for  Don  Mackenzie, 
she  was  twenty-six  now ;  an  impulsive  girl  then,  a 
self-possessed  woman  now ;  that  had  been  a  golden 
experience;  if  there  were  any  gold  in  her  it  had 
been  tried  in  that  fire. 

He  was  her  girlish  ideal ;  he  was  not  her  woman's 
ideal  Perhaps  she  was  disappointed  in  him. 


258  GROWING   UP. 

"Marion,  Marion,"  called  a  voice  in  the  hall;  a 
voice  Marion  loved ;  Aunt  Affy's  voice. 

"  0,  Aunt  Affy,"  springing  toward  the  figure  in 
the  grey  dress  and  pretty  grey  bonnet,  "how  did 
you  know  I  wanted  you  more  than  I  ever  did  in  my 
life  ?  " 

"  I  was  sent,  may  be,    was  the  simple  reply. 

"  I  am  sure  you  were,"  said  Marion,  drawing  her 
into  the  study  and  seating  her  on  the  lounge. 
"  Now  give  me  your  bonnet." 

"But,  I  can't  stay  a  minute,"  Aunt  Affy  protested; 
"Cephas  had  to  come  to  the  blacksmith's,  and  he 
brought  me.  Kody  hasn't  been  so  well  all  day,  and 
I  hate  to  leave  her.  I  came  to  see  the  minister." 

"  The  minister's  sister  will  have  to  do  this  time." 

"I'm  afraid  she  won't.  Eody  has  something  on 
her  mind ;  I  thought  perhaps  he  would  come  to  see 
her  and  find  out.  She  looks  queer  at  me  and  will 
not  speak.  Mrs.  Evans  is  staying  with  her.  She 
hasn't  worked  too  hard  this  summer ;  she  couldn't ; 
I've  done  a  good  deal,  and  we've  had  one  of  the 
Draper  girls  come  in  two  days  every  week.  I  know 
it-  isn't  that ;  it's  her  mind.  But  I'll  stay  content 
till  Cephas  comes  for  me.  Now,  what  is,  deary  ?  " 


MARION'S  AFTERNOON.  259 

"  It  isn't  anything ;  only  I  wanted  to  hear  you 
talk." 

"  Bless  the  child,"  ejaculated  Aunt  Affy ;  "  I  never 
talked  in  my  life." 

"No,  you  never  do;  you  only  breathe  out  your 
spirit  and  your  experiences ;  they  find  words  for 
themselves ;  I  truly  believe  you  have  nothing  to  do 
with  the  words ;  they  come." 

Aunt  Affy  laughed ;  she  thought  so  herself. 

"Did  you  ever  want  to  do  anything  different  from 
your  life  ?  Were  you  always  as  satisfied  as  you  are 
now  ? "  asked  Marion,  taking  Aunt  Affy's  hard-work 
ing  hand  into  her  own  pretty  fingers. 

Then  Aunt  Affy  laughed  again.  What  a  tumult 
her  far-away  girlhood  had  been.  Did  girls  now-a- 
days  think  so  much  and  have  such  confusing 
thoughts  and  times  ? 

"  I  had  a  longing  to  do  a  certain  kind  of  work  — 
very  practical ;  and  the  only  relief  was  praying  to  be 
satisfied  with  the  having  and  doing  it.  That  was  a 
very  holy  state  of  mind,  you  think.  I  used  to  think 
so,  too.  Would  it  have  been  a  holy  state  of  mind 
if  I  had  run  next  door  to  see  my  bosom  friend  and 
talked  to  her  continually  about  it?  My  praying 


260  GROWING   UP. 

was  simply  to  unburden  myself.  I  had  no  bosom 
friend  to  talk  to;  if  I  had  I  might  have  told  her 
about  it  instead  of  praying  about  it.  And  being 
devout  I  talked  to  God  about  it,  instead  of  falling 
into  reverie  as  one  less  devout  would  have  done.  I 
am  not  confident  all  my  praying  was  prayer,"  she 
answered,  shaking  her  head  with  its  two  long  white 
curls. 

"  Yes,"  said  Marion,  who  had  felt  this  dimly  about 
her  own  praying. 

"  But  it  held  this  inestimable  blessing  —  it  moved 
me  to  study  about  prayer,  as  no  other  experience 
would  have  done.  And  then,  as  the  years  went  on, 
the  comfort  of  what  I  found  to  believe  was  so  satisfy 
ing  that  I  forgot,  for  the  while,  the  certain  thing  I 
was  longing  for.  And  then  as  it  was  not  granted, 
I  began  to  think  the  longing  had  been  kept  alive 
and  craving  that  I  might  be  kept  alive  and  craving 
about  prayer.  God's  way  of  answering  is  as  well 
worth  studying  as  our  way  of  asking." 

"I  should  think  it  might  be  worth  more,"  said 
Marion. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that.  Some  too  in 
trospective  people  regard  more  their  way  of  asking 


MARION'S  AFTERNOON.  261 

—  and  in  that  way  wander  about  in  the  dark  while 
his  way  of  answering  is  light  about  them." 

"  But  then,"  Marion  said,  argumentatively, "  don't 
you  see  that  unless  your  prayer  were  granted  what 
you  were  learning  would  not  be  true ;  that  is,  if  the 
promises  are  to  be  taken  literally  and  exactly." 

"  I  do  not  always  know  about  '  literally  and  ex 
actly.'  That  depends  upon  just  where  we  are.  A 
child's  faith  may  need  '  literally  and  exactly.'  You 
and  I  may  be  growing  into  —  not  a  less  confident, 
but  a  more  intelligent  faith." 

"Let  me  read  you  something.  Dr.  Parkhurst 
says  — "  Marion  opened  the  volume  and  read :  — 
" '  The  longings  of  the  human  spirit  have  their  own 
particular  beatitude,  and,  better  than  any  other  inter 
preters,  make  clear  the  meaning  of  the  Holy  Word.'" 

"  Eead  it  again,"  said  Aunt  Affy.  "  I've  been  all 
through  that." 

Marion  read  it  again,  very  clearly,  then  laid  aside 
the  book. 

"  But  how  do  you  know  if  you  do  give  up  ?  "  she 
asked,  feeling  her  own  will  strong  within  her. 

"There  is  a  great  deal  in  your  question.  To  give 
up  heartily  and  thoroughly  is  a  rare  thing  to  da  It 


262  GROWING    UP. 

is  more  than  giving  up  praying  about  it  It  is  even 
more  than  giving  up  wishitg  for  it.  It  is  giving  up 
the  place  in  your'  heart,  the  plan  in  your  life  that 
held  it ;  it  is  so  giving  up  that  you  can  put  some 
thing  else  in  its  stead.  It  is  filling  that  place  so 
full  that  the  old  desire  can  never  get  back  into  it 
again.  And  it  is  doing  it  of  your  own  free  will.  It 
is  like  what  the  people  might  have  done  by  taking 
God  back  again  as  King,  and  refusing  to  have  Saul. 
They  had  the  opportunity  to  do  it." 

"  Aunt  Affy,  how  have  you  learned  to  be  so  sure 
about  things  ?  You  remind  me  of  another  thing  Dr. 
Parkhurst  says:  'A  Christian  has  more  than  the 
natural  resources  of  thought  and  action.'" 

"  So  we  have.  I  knew  nothing  but  that  God  cared 
for  me.  And  I  was  eager,  impetuous,  impatient, 
wilful,  eager  for  him  to  walk  my  way,  in  the  way  I 
should  tell  him  about.  It  was  years  and  years  be 
fore  his  Word  became  to  me  the  delight,  the  plain 
command,  warning,  rebuke,  comfort,  it  is  to-day. 
But  I  studied  night  and  day  with  my  longing  heart ; 
and  he  blessed  every  natural  longing ;  he  took  not 
one  away ;  he  took  each  into  his  keeping  and  blessed 
it" 


AFTEBNOOX.  263 


**Does  it  take  years?"  faltered  Marion.  "I  want 
to  learn  something  to-day." 

"You  may  learn  something  to-day;  you  cannot 
learn  all  to-day.  Yesterday  I  opened  my  Bible  to  a 
passage  dated  thirty  years  ago;  I  remember  the 
night  I  marked  it;  I  was  staggered,  dismayed  at 
something  that  had  happened  to  me,  something  that 
I  thought  God  would  never  let  happen.  I  read 
through  tears  ;  I  was  comforted  although  the  words 
meant  little  to  me  ;  I  was  comforted  as  a  child  is 
comforted,  snug  in  its  mother's  arms,  when  the 
mother  does  not  speak  one  word.  Yesterday,  being 
in  a  strait  again,  I  read  these  same  marked  words  ; 
again  they  were  dull  and  dry  ;  I  asked  God  to  tell 
me  what  he  meant" 

"  Thirty  years  ago  did  you  ask  him  to  tell  you  ?  " 

"No,  I  did  not  think  of  that.  I  thought  I  would 
be  comforted  some  other  way.  I  had  not  grown  up 
to  the  understanding  of  to-day.  You  know  there's 
a  natural  growing  up  to  understanding  God's  words. 
It  took  the  happenings  of  these  thirty  years  to  make 
me  understand;  God  worked  through  them.  He 
makes  us  grow  through  the  sunshine  and  rain  of  his 
happenings.  God  has  to  wait  for  our  slow  growing. 


264  GROWING  UP. 

(And  I  wish  to  impress  upon  you  just  here,  that 
unless  you  read  and  remember  and  understand  the 
Bible  stories  you  cannot  expect  to  find  the  lessons 
for  your  own  life.  Superficial  reading  will  not  bring 
out  the  points;  one  of  his  ways  of  teaching  is 
through  the  natural  method  of  your  own  study  and 
memory.) 

"'Therefore  they  inquired  of  the  Lord  further.' 
That  further  helped  me  through  a  hard  time.  The 
story  is  this :  God  had  chosen  a  king  for  his  people, 
told  Samuel  all  about  it,  and  sent  him  to  pour  the 
anointing  oil  upon  his  head  and  to  kiss  him;  and 
now  when  Samuel  called  the  people  together  at 
Mizpeh,  and  caused  all  the  tribes  to  come  near  to 
choose  a  king  for  them,  and  the  tribe  of  Benjamin 
was  taken,  then  the  family  in  Benjamin,  then  Saul, 
the  son  of  Kish,  thus  confirming  the  Lord's  choice 
and  Samuel's  mission  in  the  anointing,  and  then  the 
most  astounding  thing  happened.  Saul,  the  chosen 
of  the  Lord,  the  young  man  whom  the  Judge  of 
Israel  had  anointed  and  kissed,  could  not  be  found. 
What  would  you  think  if  you  believed  that  God  had 
Bidden  you  do  something,  and  had  confirmed  it  in 
moll  a  special,  satisfying,  convincing  manner,  and 


MARION'S  AFTERNOON.  265 

then  suddenly  you  could  go  no  further  —  it  was  all 
taken  out  of  your  hands.  The  prophet  sought  for 
Saul  and  could  not  find  him.  Would  you  not  be 
tempted  to  say  —  would  you  not  really  say  to  your 
self,  and  to  the  Lord,  I  have  been  mistaken ;  I  went 
ahead  to  do  God's  bidding  in  all  the  confidence  of 
my  faith,  and  before  all  the  people  I  am  ashamed ;  it 
is  proven  that  God  did  not  bid  me,  that  my  faith 
was  presumptive,  for  the  time  has  come  to  go  on, 
and  I  cannot  go  on  —  the  work  is  not  to  be  done. 
It  looks  as  if  I  had  deceived  myself ;  God  has  allowed 
me  to  believe  something  that  is  not  true.  Could 
anything  be  more  heart-breaking  ?  How  could  God 
treat  you  like  that  when  you  believed  him  so,  and 
were  so  in  earnest  ?  "Would  you  have  the  heart  to 
inquire  further  ?  They  asked  if  the  man  should  yet 
come  hither.  Samuel  had  done  all  he  could.  The 
Lord  answered,  telling  them  plainly  where  the  man 
had  hidden  himself.  Oh,  these  hidden  people,  the 
Lord  knows  about.  He  is  in  all  their  hiding  places. 
Suppose  Samuel  had  stopped,  ashamed  before  the 
people,  angry,  humiliated  before  the  Lord.  There 
had  to  be  this  last  trial  of  faith.  At  the  last  eager, 
sure  moment  God  may  have  a  new  test  of  faith  for 


266  GROWING   UP. 

us.  Is  there  a  hiding  place  in  one  of  your  last,  sure 
moments?  Do  not  fail  before  it.  God's  will  is 
hidden  away  in  it." 

"Aunt  Affy,  you  do  not  know  what  you  have 
done  for  me,"  said  Marion,  solemnly,  "  I  have  just 
been  deciding  something  for  myself.  I  was  forget 
ting  that  God  might  have  a  will  about  it ;  that  there 
was  any  further  in  it." 

"And  here  comes  Cephas,"  Aunt  Affy  replied, 
rising;  "I  know  the  rattling  of  those  chains  —  I 
came  in  the  farm  wagon  because  it  was  easier  than 
for  him  to  hitch  the  horses  to  the  carriage.  I'm 
thankful  enough  if  I've  been  of  any  help  to  you," 
she  added,  touching  Marion's  forehead  with  her 
sweet,  old,  happy  lips. 

"  Shall  I  send  Eoger  as  soon  as  he  comes  home  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  Judith.  Judith  didn't  come  yesterday, 
and  Rody  kept  asking  for  her." 

"It  may  be  late.  They  have  gone  to  Meadow 
Centre." 

"  No  matter  if  it  is  midnight  Rody  didn't  sleep 
last  night.  She  talked  in  her  sleep,  and  has  been 
muttering  all  day ;  I  wouldn't  have  left  her  only  I 
wanted  to  see  the  minister  alone  before  he  saw  her.* 


MARION'S  AFTERNOON.  267 

The  chains  of  the  farm  wagon  rattled  into  the  lane. 
Marion,  on  the  piazza,  watched  the  old  lovers  drive 
away. 


268  GROWING  UP. 


xxn. 

* 

AUNT  AFFY'S  EVENING. 

*  When  He  gireth  quietness,  who  then  can  make  trouble  ?  "  — 
Job  xxxiv.  29. 

"I  DON'T  want  any  supper,"  complained  Aunt 
Kody,  rising  from  the  supper  table  and  staggering 
toward  the  sitting-room  door.  I'm  too  full  to  eat; 
too  full  of  deceit ;  you  are  all  deceiving  me." 

"  Now,  Rody,"  protested  Cephas,  buttering  his  big 
slice  of  bread,  with  a  vigorous  touch. 

"All,  every  one  of  you,  she  said  with  a  wail, 
turning  with  a  slow  effort  to  face  the  supper-table  ; 
"  you  have  deceived  me  all  your  life,  and  Affy  has, 
and  Joe,  and  Judith,  and  Doodles  would  if  he 
knew  how.  Perhaps  he  does  in  a  dog's  way,  which 
isn't  half  so  tremendous  as  the  human  way." 

Joe  burst  into  a  laugh,  which  Aunt  Afify's  look 
instantly  silenced. 

*  Poor  Rody,"  she  sighed. 


AUNT  AFFY'S  EVENING.  269 

In  the  twilight,  after  the  dishes  were  done,  the 
two  old  sisters  sat  together  on  the  piazza ;  Rody  had 
insisted  upon  wiping  the  dishes,  and  as  she  sat  up 
right  in  her  straight-backed  chair,  she  rubbed  her 
fingers  dry  with  the  brown  gingham  apron  she  had 
forgotten  to  take  off. 

She  rubbed  her  fingers  with  an  unceasing  motion, 
muttering  to  herself.  Affy  looked  off  into  the  twi 
light,  her  hands  still  in  her  lap.  Joe  went  whistling 
up  the  road  to  the  village;  Cephas,  in  meditative 
attitude,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  with  his  straw  hat 
pushed  to  the  back  of  his  head,  leaned  over  the  gate. 

"All  of  you,  all  of  you,"  mumbled  the  breaking 
voice,  "  from  my  youth  up." 

"Cephas  thinks  it  would  be  a  good  thing  to  sell 
the  milk  to  the  Dutchman  that  has  bought  the 
Elting  farm,"  began  Affy,  watching  the  effect  of  her 
words.  "Four  cents  a  quart.  And  we  would  be 
saved  the  churning  and  washing  all  the  milk  things. 
If  Joe  goes  away  to  learn  a  trade  we  shall  have 
nobody  to  churn.  What  do  you  think,  Rody  ?  " 

The  drooping  head  lifted  itself,  the  fingers  with 
the  gingham  fold  were  held  with  a  loosening  hand ; 
sharply  and  shrilly  Aunt  Kody  replied :  "  That's  al- 


270  GROWING   UP. 

ways  the  way ;  you  and  Cephas  are  always  putting 
your  heads  together  to  cheat  me  out  of  something. 
Not  a  quart  of  that  milk  shall  go.  Joe  shall  stay 
and  churn.  Mother  never  sold  her  milk  to  a  Dutch 
man  for  four  cents  a  quart.  What  would  we  do  for 
butter,  I'd  like  to  know." 

"Buy  it." 

"  Buy  it,"  she  repeated,  mockingly ;  "  nobody  on 
the  Sparrow  place  ever  paid  money  for  butter." 

"But  Cephas  thinks — ,"  began  Aunt  Affy,  pa 
tiently. 

"  Tell  Cephas  to  stop  thinking,"  replied  the  weakly, 
imperative  voice. 

Twilight  darkened  into  night ;  but  Body  refused 
to  go  in  and  go  to  bed;  she  was  comfortable,  she 
liked  that  chair,  she  liked  the  stars,  she  could 
breathe  better  out  here  in  the  night  air;  she  did 
not  want  to  go  into  her  bedroom,  somebody  had 
struck  her  a  blow  in  there. 

So  they  stayed,  the  air  blew  damp,  Aunt  Affy 
brought  a  shawl  and  pinned  it  about  the  stooping 
shoulders ;  Cephas  came  and  sat  down  on  the  step 
of  the  piazza  with  his  hat  on  his  knee,  giving  uneasy 
glances  now  and  then  at  the  muffled,  still  figure  in 
the  chair. 


AUNT  AFFY^S  EVENING.  271 

"It's  getting  dark,"  suggested  Affy,  rising  and 
standing  before  the  bent  figure  with  its  head  turned 
stiffly  to  one  side. 

"And  damp  —  these  nights  are  chilly  for  old 
bones,"  replied  Cephas. 

"There's  a  light  in  the  house,"  persuaded  Affy, 
"and  it's  dark  out  here." 

"  And  the  bed  is  so  comfortable,"  added  Cephas ; 
"  guess  I'll  go  in." 

He  arose  and  went  in. 

"  I'm  going,  too,"  encouraged  Affy.  "  Come,  Rody, 
you  may  sleep  in  my  bed." 

"I  won't  sleep  in  my  bed;  are  you  sure  there's 
nobody  to  strike  me  in  your  room  ?  "  she  questioned 
like  a  frightened  child. 

"Nobody  but  me.  Come,  Rody,"  she  urged, 
gently. 

Placing  a  hand  on  each  arm  of  the  chair,  the  old 
woman  lifted  herself  to  her  feet ;  then  she  felt  out 
in  the  darkness  for  something  to  lean  on ;  Affy  took 
her  arm  and  led  her  in.  The  lamp  was  burning  on 
the  round  table  where  the  New  York  Observer  was 
piled ;  Doodles  slept  on  his  cushion  on  the  lounge. 

"Ill  sit  here  awhile,"  said  Cephas,  pulling  his 


272  GROWING  UP. 

spectacle  case  from  his  vest  pocket  "  I  haven't  read 
the  paper  to-night." 

"  I'll  sit  here,  too,"  said  Rody,  rousing  herself  to  a 
decision.  "  Somehow  I  don't  want  to  go  to  bed.  I 
don't  believe  it's  nine  o'clock  yet.  I  wish  the  clock 
would  strike.  I  wish  something  would  make  a 
noise." 

"  It's  a  quarter  of  nine,"  replied  Affy,  lowering  her 
sister  slowly  down  into  her  chair.  "  It  will  soon 
strike." 

"  Take  this  thing  off,"  commanded  Rody,  tugging 
at  the  shawl  with  her  weak  right  hand.  "  You 
bundle  me  up  as  if  I  was  a  baby." 

"  There's  a  carriage  coming,"  said  Cephas,  bending 
his  head  and  half  shutting  his  eyes  to  listen ;  "  he's 
come,  Affy." 

"Who's  come?"  demanded  Aunt  Eody,  in  shrill 
tone.  "  Who  comes  at  this  time  of  night  ? " 

"The  minister;  he  was  coming  to  bring  Judith 
for  an  hour  or  two,"  Cephas  answered,  reassuringly. 
"She  didn't  come  yesterday.  Don't  you  want  to 
see  her  ?" 

"Just  for  a  look;  I  don't  want  her  to  stay,  I  don't 
want  anybody  to  stay." 


AUNT  AFFY*S  EVENING. 


Roger  Kenney  and  Judith  entered  quietly ;  Judith 
shrank  from  the  old  woman  as  she  stood  for  an  in 
stant  beside  her  chair.  Roger  drew  a  chair  nearer 
and  took  Aunt  Rody's  hand  into  his  own.  The 
nerveless  hand  lay  in  his  as  if  glad  of  the  \varmth 
and  strength ;  as  he  talked,  Eoger  clasped  and  un 
clasped  his  hand  over  hers  that  she  might  feel  the 
motion  and  life  of  his  lingers. 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Aunt  Rody,"  he  said  in  a 
voice  which  was  a  tonic. 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  she  replied,  with  the  flicker 
of  a  smile  about  her  lips. 

"'  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled.'" 

"It  is  troubled;  it  is  full  of  trouble.  It's  Any 
and  Cephas ;  they  are  deceiving  me.  They  want  to 
get  married  and  deceive  me  more  and  more." 

"Shall  I  tell  you  how  well  stop  that?"  asked 
Roger,  bending  confidentially  toward  her. 

"  Yes,  do.     Tell  me  quick." 

"Let  me  marry  them,  and  then  you  will  never 
think  they  are  deceiving  you  again.  What  is  the 
reason  they  are  deceiving  you  now  ?  " 

"  Because  they  think  I  stand  between  them ; 
they  think  I've  always  stood  between  them,"  she 


274  GROWING  UP. 

said,  piteously;  "but  I  never  did.  I  was  seeking 
their  good." 

"  But  don't  you  think  you  have  sought  their  good 
long  enough  ?  "  he  asked  persuasively. 

"  Yes ;  I've  worn  myself  out  for  their  good.  I'm 
worn  out  now;  they'll  have  to  do  for  themselves, 
after  this." 

"  Who  will  take  care  of  Affy  after  you  are  gone  ?  " 

"I  don't  know;  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  She 
doesn't  know  how  to  take  care  of  herself." 

"  But  she  was  your  little  baby ;  you  are  sorry  not 
to  have  her  taken  care  of." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I'm  sorry ;  I'm  very  sorry." 

Affy  dropped  on  the  lounge  beside  Doodles,  and 
was  crying  like  a  child ;  Judith  went  to  her  and  put 
both  her  strong  young  arms  about  her  and  her  warm 
cheek  to  hers.  Cephas  cleared  his  throat,  then 
busied  himself  burnishing  his  spectacles  with  a  piece 
of  old  chamois. 

"  Somebody  must  take  care  of  her,  Cephas  knows 
how  best,"  said  the  minister  with  firmness,  rubbing 
the  cold,  limp  fingers. 

"Yes,  Cephas  knows  now  best,"  she  quavered 
"Come  here,  Cephas,  and  promise  the  minister  you 
will  always  take  care  of  Affy." 


AUNT  AFFY'S  EVENING.  275 

"  Go,  Aunt  Affy,"  said  Judith,  in  her  strong,  young 
voice,  "  go  and  be  married  while  Aunt  Eody  knows 
it  She'll  change  her  mind  to-morrow  —  " 

"Oh,  I  can't,  I  can't,"  sobbed  Aunt  Affy,  "with 
Eody  so  near  dying,  how  can  I?  Ife  too  hurried 
and  dreadful." 

"  It's  too  beautiful,"  said  Judith ;  "  that  is  all  she 
can  do  for  you ;  do  let  her  do  it,  dear  Aunt  Any." 

"  Come,  Affy,"  said  Cephas  solemnly,  "  the  Lord's 
time  has  come." 

"Perhaps  it  has,"  sobbed  Affy,  trembling  from 
head  to  foot,  as  Judith  led  her  across  the  room. 

Roger  arose  and  stood  before  the  old  man  and  the 
old  woman ;  her  head  drooped  so  that  one  long  curl 
rested  on  his  shoulder. 

"  I'd  ought  to  have  a  coat  on,"  said  Cephas  with 
an  ashamed  face ;  "  it  isn't  proper  for  a  man  to  be 
married  in  his  shirt-sleeves." 

"And  let  me  fix  up  a  little,"  coaxed  Aunt  Affy; 
"  this  is  my  old  muslin,  all  faded  out." 

"Oh,  don't  spoil  anything,"  Judith  besought;  "  see 
how  she  is  watching  you.  Aunt  Rody,  don't  you 
want  Uncle  Cephas  to  take  care  of  Aunt  Affy  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes,  oh,  yes.  Has  he  promised  the  min 
ister  ?  "  she  asked  with  tremulous  anxiety. 


276  GROWING   UP. 

"Listen,  and  you  will  hear  him  promise.  Joe, 
come  here,"  Eoger  called  to  the  step  in  the  kitchen. 

Joe  came  to  the  threshold,  threw  off  his  hat,  and 
stood  amazed. 

"  Aunt  Body,  put  their  hands  together,"  said 
Judith,  taking  Aunt  Eody's  hands  as  the  old  bride 
and  bridegroom  stretched  their  hands  toward  her. 

"  Did  I  do  it  ? "  she  asked,  as  she  felt  the  touch 
of  both  hands.  "  Is  it  done  for  always  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  minister,  "  you've  done  it.  Now, 
listen  to  every  word." 

"  Has  he  promised  to  take  care  of  Affy  ? "  Rody 
asked,  peering  up  into  Roger's  face. 

"  Yes,  Rody,  with  all  my  heart  and  soul  and 
strength,"  answered  the  old  man,  with  the  light  of 
communion  Sunday  in  his  face. 

The  curl  drooped  lower  on  Cephas'  shirt-sleeve ; 
Judith  stood  near  Aunt  Affy. 

The  solemn,  glad  words  were  spoken,  the  prayer 
uttered,  the  benediction  given ;  Aunt  Affy  and 
Uncle  Cephas  were  married. 

"  Let  me  kiss  you,  Rody,"  said  Affy,  through  her 
tears. 

"  I  kissed  you  when  you  were  a  baby/^said  Rody, 


AUNT  AFFY'S  EVENIXQ.  277 

"You  were  a  nice  little  baby.  Mother  said  I  must 
always  think  of  you  first." 

"  Now,  you  will  go  to  bed,"  said  Affy.  "  It's  after 
nine  o'clock." 

"  Not  in  my  room.  I'll  go  in  your  room.  Don't 
you  go  away  all  night.  K£ep  the  light  burning,  and 
don't  you  go." 

"  No ;  I'll  stay,  Eody ;  we  will  take  care  of  you  al 
ways,  Cephas  and  I." 

Judith  stayed  that  night ;  Aunt  Eody  slept  well, 
and  arose  in  the  morning  at  her  usual  early  hour. 
She  made  no  allusion  to  the  marriage  that  day,  nor 
as  long  as  she  lived. 


278  GROWING1 


xxni 

VOICES. 

"The  love  for  me  once  crucified, 
Is  not  a  love  to  leave  my  side, 
But  waiteth  ever  to  divide 
Each  smallest  care  of  mine." 

THE  three  were  in  the  study  that  Sunday  after 
noon  that  the  Meadow  Centre  minister  exchanged 
with  Roger  Kenney  ;  the  minister,  the  hostess,  and 
the  girl  at  boarding-school.  The  boarding-school 
girl  had  a  book  in  her  lap  with  her  finger  between 
the  leaves,  listening. 

"  Mr.  King  talks  as  though  he  had  never  had  any 
one  to  talk  to  before,"  Judith  thought  as  she  watched 
the  two  and  listened. 

His  conversation  was  filled  with  bits  of  informa 
tion,  with  incident,  with  a  thought  now  and  then, 
absorbingly  interesting  to  a  school-girl. 

Roger  loved  people  better  than  he  loved  books; 


VOICES.  279 

Judith  had  not  outgrown  her  books,  and  grown  into 
loving  people.  The  Meadow  Centre  minister  was  a 
chapter  in  a  most  fascinating  book ;  he  was  the  hero 
of  a  story ;  he  was  not  a  being  of  flesh  and  blood 
like  Roger.  She  was  afraid  every  moment  the  book 
would  shut  and  she  weald  read  no  more  of  his  story ; 
"  to  be  continued  "  would  end  this  chapter,  and  then 
she  might  never  see  the  end  of  the  book. 

"'Conversation  is  not  the  road  leading  to  the 
house,'"  he  quoted,  "'but  a  by-path  where  people 
walk  with  pleasure.' " 

"  I  think  it  leads  to  the  house,"  replied  Judith, 
quickly,  "  if  people  are  real  and  sincere.  What  does 
lead  to  the  house  if  conversation  does  not  ?" 

"  Deeds,"  suggested  Marion. 

"  But  we  can't  do  deeds  every  minute,"  persisted 
Judith ;  "  how  could  we  do  deeds  sitting  here  this 
afternoon." 

"We  have  done  them,"  said  Mr.  King;  "we  are 
resting  in  a  by-path." 

"  But  we  want  to  get  to  £he  house,"  insisted 
Judith. 

"Loitering  by  the  way  is  pleasant;  through  the 
by-way  we  may  learn  the  way  to  the  house." 


280  GROWING   UP. 

"  Marion,  that  reminds  me  of  Cousin  Don,"  Judith 
said,  suddenly;  "we  know  him  only  through  by 
ways." 

"Tell  me  about  Cousin  Don,"  said  the  minister, 
interestedly. 

Cousin  Don  was  a  story  Judith  loved  to  tell. 

"  You  expect  to  find  him  unchanged  after  all  these 
years  —  the  time  in  his  life  when  a  man  changes  ? " 
he  inquired,  astonished.  "  Is  that  the  way  you 
understand  human  nature  ? " 

"Perhaps  I  do  not  understand  human  nature  at 
all  But  I  have  his  letters." 

"  By-ways  —  they  do  not  lead  to  the  house,"  he 
replied 

"  But  they  can,"  said  Judith,  vexed. 

" Oh,  yes,  they  can" 

"  And  I  know  they  do ;  don't  you,  Marion  ?  " 

*  In  this  case,  I  hope  so,"  Marion  answered ;  "  I 
don't  see  how  people  can  help  being  like  their 
letters." 

"  Or  their  letters  like  them  ? "  corrected  Judith. 

"  Then  how  is  it  we  are  disappointed  in  people  ? " 
Mr.  King  questioned ; "  is  it  only  our  lack  of  insight  ? " 

"  People  change,"  said  Marion,  with  slow  emphasis ; 


VOICES.  281 

**  if  we  were  with  them  all  the  time  we  would  see 
the  little  changes  that  lead  the  way  to  the  great 
changes.  People  are  even  disappointed  in  them 
selves  ;  I  am." 

"  So  am  I,"  he  answered  sincerely ;  "  I  fall  below 
my  own  ideal  often  enough ;  if  anybody  cared 
enough  for  me  to  be  disappointed  in  me  they  would 
have  reason  enough." 

"  I  don't  believe  they  would,"  thought  Judith. 

"  Mr.  King,"  Marion  began  doubtfully,  "  do  not 
answer  me  if  my  question  is  intrusive ;  but  I  would 
like  to  know  how  yoty  read  the  Bible  for  yourself." 

"  That  is  a  coincidence,"  exclaimed  Mr.  King ;  "  as 
I  was  driving  along  this  morning  a  question  came  to 
me  that  I  never  thought  of  asking  myself  before : 
suppose  someone  asks  you  to-day  how  you  study 
the  Bible  for  yourself,  what  will  you  say  ?" 

"How  wonderful,"  both  girls  said  in  the  same 
breath. 

"  So  I  told  myself  what  I  would  say.  One  of  my 
ways  when  I  am  in  special  need  of  a  word  from  my 
heavenly  Father  is  to  ask  him  to  give  it  to  me,  and 
then  I  am  sure  to  find  it  in  my  reading.  Often  I 
open  and  find  it;  often  and  often  I  find  it  in  the 


282  GROWING   UP. 

chapter  that  comes  next  in  my  daily  reading.  Ask 
ing  the  Holy  Spirit  to  open  your  eyes  to  see  his 
special  word  to  you  in  that  special  need  is  the  safest 
way  and  the  quickest  for  me.  I  am  assured  then 
that  I  shall  learn  that  day's  lesson  in  that  day's 
place.  The  truth  I  need  most  has  never  failed  to 
come." 

"  That  is  a  very  simple  way,"  Marion  said.  "  As 
simple  as  a  child  asking  his  mother  for  something 
she  has  promised.  The  only  hindrance  is  self-will." 

"  Oh,  dear,  that  hinders  everything,"  sighed  Judith, 
who  was  battling  with  the  suggestion  from  within 
herself  that  perhaps  her  boarding-school  days  were 
over  and  she  ought  to  go  back  and  help  nurse  Aunt 
Eody.  The  aunts  had  been  so  kind  to  her  mother 
when  she  was  a  homeless  little  girl,  and  to  herself 
when  she  was  a  homeless  little  girl.  She  had  kept 
it  out  of  her  prayers  ever  since  she  had  thought  of 
it.  If  only  she  had  not  thought  of  it.  Aunt  Affy 
would  never  ask  her  to  give  up  her  studies  and  her 
happy  home  to  bury  herself  with  three  old  people. 

"  Are  you  far  enough  along  in  life  to  know  that  ? " 
asked  Mr.  King,  giving  the  girl  of  eighteen  a  glance 
of  keen  interest 


VOICES.  283 

"I  think  I  was  born  knowing  it;"  said  Judith. 
"  Do  you  know  about  anybody  who  wanted  to  do 
right  and  had  a  will  of  his  own  —  " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  they  are  plenty  of  us.  Three  of  us  in 
this  room,"  he  laughed. 

"  But  I  meant  some  one  in  the  Bible,  for  then  we 
can  know  certainly  what  happened  to  him." 

"Yes,  I  find  a  king  who  leagued  himself  with 
another  king  to  go  to  war ;  but  he  was  not  satisfied 
that  he  was  in  the  way  of  obedience,  and  he  said  to 
the  other  king,  '  Inquire,  I  pray  thee,  at  the  word  of 
the  Lord  to-day,'  and  the  other  king  gathered  four 
hundred  men,  his  own  prophets,  and  inquired  of 
them  what  he  should  do.  With  one  voice  they  said, 
'  Go  up ;  for  the  Lord  shall  deliver  it  into  the  hands 
of  the  king.'  Four  hundred  answers  to  his  prayer ; 
the  Lord's  command  four  hundred  strong.  But  the 
king  who  believed  in  the  true  God  had  not  had  his 
answer ;  it  was  the  will  of  the  true  God  he  sought. 
He  said,  '  Is  there  not  here,  besides,  a  prophet  of  the 
Lord  that  we  might  inquire  of  him?'  The  answer 
was, '  There  is  yet  one  man  by  whom  we  may  inquire 
of  the  Lord.'  If  there  is  one  way  of  knowing  the 
Lord's  will,  there  is  no  excuse  for  us ;  we  may  know 


234  GROWING    UP. 

it.  Four  hundred  voices  of  self-will  are  no  reason, 
and  no  excuse,  for  riot  knowing  it  This  king  who 
believed  in  God  heard  the  one  voice  of  God  —  and 
disobeyed  it.  He  joined  himself  in  battle  with  the 
king  who  trusted  in  the  four  hundred  voices  of  his 
self-will.  And  the  battle  went  against  him;  God 
had  told  him  so.  He  believed  God  afterward;  so 
will  you  and  I  if  we  disobey.  He  went  to  battle  as 
though  God  had  not  spoken." 

"  Was  he  killed  ? "  asked  Judith,  fearful  some 
trouble  might  fall  upon  her  if  she  listened  to  the  voice 
of  self-will. 

"  No,  he  cried  out,  and  the  Lord  helped  him,  and 
moved  his  enemies  to  depart  from  him.  As  he  re 
turned  to  his  house  in  peace,  a  seer  met  him,  and 
said, '  For  this  thing  wrath  is  upon  thee  from  the 
Lord.'" 

"  '  For  this  thing,' "  repeated  Judith.  "  For  inquir 
ing  of  the  Lord,  learning  his  will,  and  then  believing 
the  voice  of  the  four  hundred  who  gave  him  his  own 
way.  Oh,  dear,  I  wish  those  four  hundred  would 
never  speak." 

"  There  is  but  one  way  to  silence  them  ;  listen  to 
God's  voice  above  them  all" 


VOICES.  285 

I 

"  But  it  is  so  hard,"  cried  Judith,  impetuously. 

"Do  not  choose  the  easy  way  of  obedience. 
Choose  God's  way,  and  let  me  tell  you  one  of  his 
secrets ;  his  way  is  always  easier  than  we  think" 

To  hide  the  tears  which  would  not  be  kept  back 
Judith  hastily  left  the  study;  he  did  not  know 
nobody  could  know,  what  obedience  would  cost  her ; 
life  at  the  parsonage  was  so  different;  Eoger  and 
Marion  were  young  with  her,  and  Aunt  Eody  and 
Aunt  Affy,  and  Uncle  Cephas  were  so  old  ;  they  had 
lived  their  lives,  and  their  days  went  on  with  a  long- 
drawn-out  sameness ;  nothing  ever  happened  to  them, 
they  were  not  looking  forward  to  anything,  there 
would  be  no  study,  no  new  books,  no  music,  no  getting 
near  the  loveliest  things  in  the  world ;  it  was  barren 
ness  and  dreariness,  it  was  like  death ;  the  parsonage 
was  hope,  and  youth,  and  love  and  life,  with  the  best 
things  yet  to  come.  "It  will  stifle  me  to  go  back; 
I  shall  die  of  homesickness,  I  shall  choke  to  death." 

Cousin  Don  had  a  right  to  her,  he  was  her  guar 
dian  cousin.  Would  he  not  have  a  right  to  come 
and  take  her  away  ?  But  her  mother  —  what  would 
her  mother  choose  for  her  to  do  ? 

They  had  been  so  kind  to  her  mother. 


286  GROWING   UP. 

"  I  will  go  and  stay  —  a  week,"  she  resolved,  tears 
rushing  afresh ;  "  but  I  miss  Marion  when  I  stay  one 
single  night." 

At  the  supper-table  she  announced  with  reddened 
eyelids  and  a  voice  that  would  not  be  steady  that 
she  thought  she  would  go  to  Aunt  Affy's  before  eve 
ning  service  and  stay  over  night ;  Uncle  Cephas  had 
told  her  that  morning  that  Aunt  Affy  was  very  tired. 

"  Must  you  go  ? "  asked  Marion.  "  But  I  know 
they  need  you.  Mrs.  Evans  said  they  couldn't  get 
any  one,  and  Aunt  Eody  was  in  bed  to-day." 

"Perhaps  I'll  find  it  easier  than  I  think,"  said 
Judith. 

"As  soon  as  they  find  a  nurse  you  will  come 
back,"  encouraged  Marion. 

During  the  walk  through  the  village  and  to  the 
Sparrow  place  Judith's  courage  all  oozed  away  ;  she 
grew  so  faint-hearted  that  she  thought  she  was 
faint;  she  stopped  for  a  glass  of  water  at  the  well 
where  the  lilies  had  come,  and  went  upstairs,  a 
moment  to  talk  to  Nettie,  still  helpless  in  her  invalid 
chair. 

"  The  minister  came  to  see  me  this  afternoon," 
Nettie  greeted  her ;  "  he  read  and  prayed  and  told 
me  things.  Has  he  told  you  anything  ? " 


VOICES.  287 

"  Yes,  and  I  almost  wish  he  had  not.  I  have  to 
do  right  things  —  whether  I  want  to  or  not." 

"  Are  you  doing  one  now  ?  One  new  one.  You 
look  so." 

"  I  am  on  the  way  to  it." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?" 

"  Literally  and  figuratively  I  am  on  the  way  to  it. 
I  am  giving  up  study  and  everything  else  to  go  and 
take  care  of  Aunt  Body." 

"How  splendid  of  you.  I  knew  you  would  do 
something  real  some  day,"  Nettie  said  with  enthusi 
asm.  "You  haven't  been  my  ideal  for  nothing. 
Mother  has  kept  telling  me  I  might  be  disappointed 
in  you ;  but  I  knew  I  never  should." 

After  that  how  could  she  feel  faint-hearted  ? 

"  O,  Judith,"  said  Aunt  Affy,  meeting  her  on  the 
piazza,  "how  did  you  know  I  couldn't  do  without 
you  any  longer  ?  Joe  has  gone  for  the  doctor ;  Eody 
has  had  another  spell." 

In  her  own  little  room  that  night  the  girl  knelt 
on  the  strip  of  rag  carpet,  and,  with  her  head  buried 
in  the  pink  and  white  quilt,  prayed  that  the  voices 
of  her  self-will  might  be  lost  in  the  voice  of  the 
Holy  Spirit.  The  coming  back  was  even  harder 


288  GEOWINQ  UP. 

than  she  feared ;  Mr.  King  had  not  told  her  God's 
truth  when  he  said :  "  His  way  is  always  easier  than 
we  think" 

The  thought  that  she  was  bravely  doing  a  hard 
thing  did  not  brace  her  to  the  bearing  of  it ;  she  was 
not  bearing  it  at  all ;  she  was  living  through  it 

Roger  had  not  once  told  her  she  was  brave,  Marion 
was  not  more  than  usually  sympathetic ;  the  neigh 
bors  were  taking  her  coming  back  as  a  matter  of 
course  —  something  to  be  expected ;  they  would  have 
blamed  her  if  she  had  not  come ;  Aunt  Rody  every  day 
was  less  fretful  toward  her,  more  satisfied  with  her 
pursing;  Aunt  Affy  busy  in  kitchen  and  dairy,  with 
the  new  importance  of  her  marriage,  and  being  for  the 
first  time  mistress  in  her  own  house,  seemed  forget 
ful  that  the  girl  had  come  from  any  brighter  life, 
forgetful  that  she  had  ever  left  the  old  place  and  its 
homespun  ways,  and,  most  discouraging  of  all,  forget 
ful  that  any  other  help  in  household  or  sick-room 
was  desired  or  might  be  had  by  searching  and  for 
money.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  Aunt  Affy 
was  selfish.  In  her  own  contentment  she  forgot,  or 
did  not  think  it  possible  that  the  girl  of  eighteen 
could  be  discontented. 


VOICES.  289 

Judith  remembered  that  Harriet  Hosmer  had  said 
she  could  be  happy  anywhere  with  good  health  and 
a  bit  of  marble. 

But  suppose  she  had  not  had  her  bit  of  marble  ? 

These  days  were  the  history  of  her  summer  of 
stories. 

The  doctor  told  them  that  Aunt  Body  might  be 
helpless  in  bed  for  months ;  she  might  gain  strength 
and  sit  in  her  chair  again.  He  had  known  such 
instances.  That  was  in  the  first  week ;  in  the  second 
week  he  gave  them  no  hope. 

The  stricken  old  woman  was  alive ;  that  was  all 
she  was  to  Judith :  an  old  woman  who  was  not  dead 
yet. 

Judith  was  pitiful ;  she  loved  her  with  a  compas 
sionate  tenderness  as  she  would  have  loved  any 
helpless,  stricken  thing ;  but  she  was  hardly  "  Aunt 
Eody  "  any  longer. 

She  was  as  helpless  as  a  baby,  with  none  of  a 
baby's  innocence,  or  loveliness  or  lovingness ;  there 
was  no  hope  for  this  gray-haired,  wrinkled  mass  of 
human  flesh,  but  in  casting  off  this  veil  of  the  flesh, 
no  hope  but  in  death.  It  was  as  if  death  were  alive 
before  Judith's  eyes,  and  within  touch  of  her  hand. 


290  GROWING   UP. 

She  had  no  memory  of  Aunt  Kody  as  the  others 
had,  to  give  affection  to ;  there  was  only  this.  There 
was  scarcely  any  memory  for  her  gratitude  to  cling 
to. 

There  was  one  comfort  left ;  she  was  not  afraid  of 
her  now. 

If  she  had  stayed  with  her,  instead  of  being  at 
home  at  the  parsonage,  she  might  have  grown  up  to 
love  and  understand  her;  instead  she  had  grown 
away  from  love  and  understanding. 

She  dared  not  think  of  release  coming  through 
Aunt  Rody's  death.  That  would  be  desiring  her 
death.  Desiring  one's  death  in  one's  heart  was  — . 

There  was  no  hope  but  in  Cousin  Don. 


/  ALWAYS  THOUGHT  YOU  CARED.        291 


XXIV. 

"I  HAVE  ALWAYS   THOUGHT  YOU  CARED." 

" '  What  is  it  thou  knowest,  sweet  voiee  7 '  I  cried, 
4  A  hidden  hope,'  the  Toice  replied." 

TENNYSON. 

"  JUDITH,  don't  stay  in  this  little  close  entry  when 
all  out-doors  is  calling  to  you,"  said  Aunt  Affy. 

"But  I  thought  she  might  stir  and  want  some 
thing,"  replied  Aunt  Rody's  nurse ;  "  she  looks  up  so 
patient  and  pitiful  when  she  wants  something." 

"  My  work  is  all  done ;  I'll  sit  here ;  you  are  losing 
your  color,  child.  What  will  your  Cousin  Don  say 
to  me  when  he  comes  home  to  claim  you  ? " 

"  He  will  not  come  home  to  do  that,"  said  Judith, 
rising  reluctantly  to  give  Aunt  Affy  her  low  chair. 
"  I  have  a  foreboding  that  something  is  happening  to 
him.  He  never  forgot  me  before." 

"  Forebodings  come  out  of  tired  head  and  feet  and 
back.  I  am  allowing  you  to  do  too  much.  This  is 
Saturday  afternoon  and  your  play  time.  The  baking 


292  GROWING   UP 

is  done,  and  now  that  we  are  rid  of  churning — what 
would  poor  Eody  say  to  me  for  selling  the  milk  and 
making  no  butter  ?  I  feel  that  I  am '  deceiving '  her 
at  every  turn  about  the  house.  Run  up  stairs  and 
put  on  the  blue  muslin  you  look  so  cool  in,  and  go 
out  in  the  hammock  and  forget  the  responsibility 
that  takes  away  your  appetite  and  gives  you  big  eyes. 
Dear  child,  death  must  come.  It  is  the  voice  of 
the  Lord  calling  Eody.  You  know  what  George 
MacDonald  says :  Death  is  only  going  to  sleep  when 
one  is  downright  sleepy.  Rody  is  downright  sleepy. 
Think  how  she  sleeps  half  the  time,  poor  old  soul " 

"Do  you  think  she  is  glad  to  be  'downright 
sleepy'  ? " 

"  Aren't  you,  always,  when  your  night  comes  ? " 

"  But,  Aunt  Affy,  she  hasn't  been  —  she  wasn't  — 
I  did  not  think  she  cared." 

"  Her  light  has  almost  gone  out,  sometimes,  I  do 
believe.  But  it's  there,  burning.  She  has  a  spark 
of  real  faith  that  never  went  out.  She  wasn't  as 
loving  in  her  ways  as  she  was  in  her  heart.  Now, 
don't  stand  another  minute.  I  want  you  to  go  to 
church  to-morrow,  too.  John  Kenny  is  out  on  the 
piazza  waiting  for  you ;  he's  come  to  the  parsonage 
to  spend  Sunday." 


I  AL  WA  TS  THO UGHT  TO  U  CARED.         293 

In  an  instant  Judith  was  all  light  and  color. 
John  Kenny  was  the  kind  of  a  friend  that  no  one 
else  in  the  world  was ;  as  grave  as  the  minister  him 
self,  at  times,  as  book  loving,  and  yet  as  full  of  fun 
and  frolic  as  a  boy ;  he  was  taller  than  Eoger,  and 
handsome ;  Roger  was  fine,  but  he  was  not  handsome ; 
she  had  no  fear  or  reverence  for  John,  he  stood 
beside  her,  and  walked  beside  her ;  they  were  boy 
and  girl  together;  John  was  nearly  three  years 
older ;  he  would  be  twenty-one  in  the  winter.  She 
stood  still  radiant. 

"You  look  rested  enough  now,"  remarked  Aunt 
Affy. 

"I  was  not  so  tired,  I  was  only  blue;  I  was 
thinking  about  Don.  John  has  been  away  all 
summer;  he  has  not  been  in  Bensalem  since  my 
birthday." 

"  Did  he  come  for  that  ? "  inquired  Aunt  Affy, 
keeping  any  suggestion  out  of  her  voice.  She  would 
not  put  ideas  into  the  child's  head. 

"He  said  so.  And  to  say  good-bye  to  the  par 
sonage.  We  agreed  not  to  write  to  each  other  while 
he  was  out  west." 

"  What  for,"  questioned  Aunt  Affy,  suspiciously. 
"  Had  you  ever  written  to  each  other  before?  " 


294  GROWING   UP. 

"No,"  laughed  Judith,  softly,  "and  we  agreed 
not  to  begin." 

"  What  for  ?  "  asked  Aunt  Affy,  again. 

"  For  fun,  I  think,  as  much  as  anything.  I  think 
we  had  no  real  reason." 

"Two  such  reasonable  creatures,  too.  Judith,  you 
had  a  reason  or  he  had.  Why  should  the  question 
come  up  ? "  Aunt  Affy  asked  severely. 

"  Oh,  questions  are  always  coming  up.  He  asked 
me  if  I  would  write  and  I  refused." 

"  And  that's  how  you  agreed  together.  What  was 
your  reason  ? " 

"I  think,"  began  Judith  slowly,  "I  was  afraid 
Roger  wouldn't  like  it.  Or  Marion.  Marion  is 
particular  about  such  things.  I'm  afraid  she  had 
something  to  trouble  her  once  —  she  never  will 
teaze  anybody  about  anybody,  even." 

"  Well,  be  off,  and  dress.  I  told  John  you  would 
not  be  out  for  some  time." 

"I'll  go  in  this  dress.  I  haven't  seen  hLn  for 
months." 

Whether  the  haste  augured  well  or  ill  for  John,  Aunt 
Affy  could  not  decide ;  she  went  into  Aunt  Eody's 
bedroom,  touched  her  forehead  and  spoke  to  her. 


/  AL  WA  TS  THO UGHT  YO  U  CASED.         295 

"  Are  you  sleepy,  Rody  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Would  you  like  anything  ? "' 

"No." 

Aunt  Affy,  with  her  mending  for  her  husband  and 
for  Joe,  kept  watch  in  the  entry,  lighted  by  the 
open  back  door,  all  the  afternoon. 

After  half  an  hour  on  the  piazza,  Judith  gave  John 
Aunt  Affy's  latest  magazine  to  amuse  himself  with, 
and  went  up  to  her  small  chamber,  to  braid  her 
tumbled  hair  and  to  array  herself  in  the  fresh,  blue 
muslin. 

In  the  cracked  glass  over  the  old  bureau  she  met 
the  reflection  of  a  girl  with  joyful  eyes  and  cheeks 
like  pink  roses.  She  knew  that  was  not  the  girl 
that  had  watched  Aunt  Rody  in  the  entry. 

Her  summer  companion  had  come  back ;  he  was 
her  vacation  friend ;  perhaps  she  had  missed  him ; 
perhaps  her  loneliness  had  not  all  been  for  her 
Cousin  Don.  He  was  still  in  her  world ;  across  the 
continent  had  not  been  in  her  world.  He  had  not 
sent  her  one  message  through  letters  to  Marion  or 
Roger.  She  had  not  dared  write  to  him.  But  he 
was  home  again,  just  as  grave,  and  just  as  bright, 


296  GKOWING  UP. 

with  no  reproach  in  his  eyes,  and  he  was  planning 
to  stay  a  week.  He  had  come  to  talk  to  Roger  and 
decide  his  choice  of  business  in  life;  his  father 
wished  to  take  him  into  his  own  business,  the 
jeweller's,  either  in  the  factory  or  store,  but  he  had 
no  taste  for  making  jewelry,  or  selling  it,  he  said ;  he 
would  rather  study  ;  he  was  "  not  good  enough  "  to 
be  a  minister ;  he  would  like  to  study  medicine. 

Judith  made  herself  as  fresh  and  pretty  as  girls 
love  to  be,  pondering  the  while  John's  choice  of 
work  in  life.  She  would  choose  for  him  to  be  like 
Eoger,  and  do  Roger's  work,  but  if  he  did  not  believe 
himself  to  be  "  called  "  like  Roger,  that  would  not  be 
acceptable  work ;  was  not  healing  a  part  of  Christ's 
work;  was  not  John  gentle,  sympathetic,  and  in 
love  with  every  human  creature  ?  He  had  a  copy  of 
something  of  Drummond's  in  his  pocket ;  he  said 
Drummond  was  making  a  man  of  him.  The  begin 
ning  of  his  manhood  was  in  joining  a  Boy's  Brigade 
while  he  was  away  at  boarding  school  up  the 
Hudson.  When  she  came  back  to  the  piazza  he 
said  he  would  read  to  her  Drummond's  address  to  a 
Boy's  Brigade. 

He  had  grown  more  grave  since  he  went  away ; 


1  ALWAYS  THOUGHT  YOU  CARED.         297 

he  told  her  the  weight  of  what  to  do  and  what  not 
to  do  was  heavy  upon  him  night  and  day. 

"  And  he  has  such  laughing  brown  eyes,"  she  said, 
almost  aloud,  to  the  girl  in  blue  muslin,  reflected  in 
the  cracked  mirror. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ? "  he  inquired  as  he 
pushed  a  piazza  chair  near  the  hammock  for  her, 
and  stretched  himself  in  the  hammock  that  he 
might  look  up  at  her  and  watch  her  as  he  talked. 

"  Must  I  do  something  ? " 

"  You  are  old  enough  to  decide.  Girls  are  always 
deciding.  Martha  and  Lou  are  forever  taking  up 
something  new.  They  are  not  satisfied  to  be  house 
keepers.  How  Marion  has  settled  down  since  she 
came  to  Bensalem !  To  be  Koger's  housekeeper 
and  a  deaconess  in  his  church  has  come  to  be  her 
only  ambition.  Is  that  yours,  too  ? " 

"  Which  ? "  she  asked  with  serious  lips  and  dancing 
eyes. 

"Both." 

"  My  Cousin  Don  thinks  he  has  my  future  in  his 
right  hand.  But  I'm  afraid  his  right  hand  is  finding 
business  he  likes  better." 

"  Tell  me  true,  what  do  you  wish  most  to  do  ?" 


298  GROWING   UP. 

"If  you  cannot  decide  for  yourself,  how  can  you 
expect  me  to  decide  for  myself  ? " 

"I  do  know.  I  have  decided.  I  am  simply 
waiting  for  Koger's  judgment  to  confirm  my  choice. 
I  want  him  to  talk  father  over.  Father  wants  one 
of  his  sons  in  the  business,  and  Maurice  declares  he 
will  not  go  in  —  he  wants  to  be  an  architect.  He 
has  decided  talent;  as  I  have  not,  but  am  only 
commonplace  and  a  drudgery  sort  of  a  fellow ;  I 
may  take  business  instead  of  medicine  to  please 
father  and  help  Maurice  out.  Mother  beseeches  me 
to  please  father ;  she  almost  put  it '  obey '  my  father. 
What  do  you  advise  me  ? " 

"  0,  John,  is  it  like  that  ?  I  thought  there  was 
nothing  in  the  way  but  your  own  choice." 

"There  is  not.  Father  will  give  a  grudging 
consent  I  think  he  gave  me  my  California  trip  to 
give  me  time  to  think  —  perhaps  to  think  of  his 
wishes.  He  went  into  the  business  to  please  his 
father." 

"  He  has  not  regretted  it" 

"  Far  from  it  He  congratulates  himseli  I  know 
a  fellow  whose  father  gave  him  a  '  thrashing '  to 
make  him  go  to  college ;  his  grandfather  had  given 
his  father  a  '  thrashing '  and  made  him  go." 


/  ALWAYS  THOUGHT  YOU  CARED.          299 

"Did  he  go?" 

"  The  fellow  I  know  ?     No ;  he  ran  away." 
"  Do  you  want  to  run  away  ? " 
"I  ran  away  to  Bensalem  to  ask  Roger." 
"I   think   Roger  will    urge   you  to  please   your 
father." 

"  Father  was  glad  enough  for  Roger  to  study  " 
"  That  was  because  of  the  choice  of  study." 
"  I  knew  that.    But  my  choice  is  no  mean  one." 
"I  think  a  natural   bent   should  be   respected," 
reasoned  Judith. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  have  a  natural  bent.  A 
great  English  physician  writes  that  he  decided  to 
study  medicine  when  he  was  a  boy  because  his 
father's  physician  came  to  the  house  with  a  coat 
trimmed  with  gold  lace.  He  was  after  the  gold 
lace." 

"  What  are  you  after  ? " 
"  Money,  reputation  —  position  — " 
"  I  don't  believe  it,"  she  answered,  earnestly. 
"  Oh,  I  would  like  them  thrown  in,"  he  laughed. 
"In  the  Boy's   Brigade   you   didn't   make   them 
first." 

"  What  do  you  make  first  ? " 


300  GROWING  UP. 

"  Aunt  Body,  just  now." 

"  What  second,  then  ? " 

"  Talking  to  you,  on  the  piazza." 

"Judith,"  catching  her  hands  and  holding  them 
fast,  "decide  for  me.  Shall  I  study  medicine,  or 
shall  I  please  my  father  and  mother  ? " 

"  I  cannot  decide  for  you,"  she  said,  lightly,  with 
drawing  her  hands. 

"  You  don't  care." 

"I  do  care." 

"  Decide  then." 

"  I  am  not  the  one  to  decide." 

"  You  are  ;  if  I  put  the  decision  in  your  hands." 

"  But  I  am  only  a  girL" 

"  That  is  why  I  ask  you.  Girls  see  clear.  They 
do  not  love  money,  they  are  not  ambitious." 

"  I  do  not  love  money.     I  may  be  ambitious." 

"  How  are  you  ambitious  ? " 

She  flushed  and  would  not  reply. 

"About  your  stories  ?      Do  you  expect  to  write  ? " 

"I  expect  to  write.  I  cannot  help  it;  it  is  in 
me  and  will  come  out.  Nothing  much,  perhaps ; 
only  little  things,  but  I  love  them." 

"  I  do  not  think  medicine  is  '  in  me '  like  that.     I 


I  ALWAYS  THOUGHT  YOU  CARED.          301 

simply  like  a  profession  better  than  the  routine  and 
drudgery  of  business." 

"  That  is  not  a  great  motive." 

"  No ;  and  that  boy's  gold  lace  wasn't ;  but  he 
made  a  success." 

"  Yes,"  was  all  Judith  said. 

"You  are  displeased  with  me." 

"  I  am  disappointed.     I  thought  you  cared." 

"  I  do  ;  in  a  certain  way." 

"  But  not  in  the  best  way." 

"  Judith,  I  am  not '  great '  or  '  best.' " 

"  I  thought  you  were  ;  I  want  you  to  be." 

"  That  is  a  motive,"  he  said,  catching  her  hands 
again.  "Judith,  if  you  will  tell  me  you  love  me 
and  will  marry  me,  I  will  go  home  and  tell  my 
father  I  will  make  gold  rings  and  sell  them  to  the 
end  of  my  days ;  but  you  must  let  me  put  one  on 
your  finger." 

"If  you  made  it  I'm  afraid  it  wouldn't  fit,"  she 
laughed,  again  withdrawing  her  hands. 

"  Will  you,  if  it  fits  ? " 

"  I  cannot  tell  until  I  try." 

"Don't  play  with  me.  It  is  neither 'great*  nor 
'best '  for  a  girl  to  do  that" 


302  GROWING   UP. 

"You  frighten  me,"  she  said,  with  a  sound  in  hex 
breath  like  a  sob. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"  I  cannot  promise.  I  do  not  want  to  promise. 
I  never  thought  of  it." 

"  You  think  I  am  only  a  boy." 

"  I  am  only  a  girl." 

"I  did  not  just  think  of  it  You  think  I  am  too 
sudden  and  impulsive.  I  thought  of  you  all  the 
time  I  was  gone.  I  have  loved  you  ever  since  I 
knew  you.  How  can  anybody  help  loving  you  ? 
You  meant  Bensalem  to  me  more  than  Eoger  and 
Marion  did.  I  have  been  afraid  somebody  would 
guess.  I  was  afraid  somebody  would  keep  you 
away  from  me.  Judith,  don't  you  care  for  me,  at 
all?" 

"Yes,  John;  but  not  like  that.  I  couldn't 
promise  that.  I  never  thought  you  cared  like  that. 

"  How  did  you  think  I  cared  ?  "  he  asked,  passion 
ately  ;  "  in  a  grandfatherly  way  like  Eoger  ? " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  answered  sadly ;  "  you  were 
so  good  to  me,  and  I  liked  you.  I  didn't  think." 

"  Will  you  think  now  ?  "  he  asked,  gently.  "  Will 
you  think  and  tell  me  ? " 


I  ALWAYS  THOUGHT  YOU  CARED.       303 

"  When  ? " 

"  As  soon  as  you  know  yourself,  I  will  wait 
years  and  years." 

"  Yes,  I  will  tell  you  as  soon  as  I  know  myself," 
she  promised. 

"  Then  I  will  wait.     You  are  worth  waiting  for." 

"  John,  ought  I  to  tell  Marion  ?  " 

"No.  Do  not  tell  anybody.  It  is  my  secret. 
You  haven't  any  secret.  Nobody  need  ever  know, 
I  will  never  be  pitied." 

Judith  pitied  him  then. 

"  I  am  not  bound  in  any  way.  I  haven't  promised 
John." 

"  No ;  you  haven't,"  he  said,  touched  by  the 
sorrow  in  her  face.  "  I  am  sorry  to  trouble  you  so ; 
but  I  had  to  say  it.  I  came  to  Bensalem  to  say  it." 

"  Are  you  sorry  you  came  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  had  to  have  it  out.  Perhaps  it  will 
make  a  man  of  me.  Something  will  have  to.  A 
man  needs  some  kind  of  a  fight." 

Judith  thought  that  it  was  not  only  his  "  fight." 

"  I  am  going  home ;  I  can't  stay  here.  I'll  tell 
Eoger  I  decided  not  to  stay  over  Sunday.  I  don't 
care  what  he  thinks.  We  talked  till  twelve  o'clock 


304  GROWING   UP. 

last  night.  I  know  what  he  thinks.  I'll  walk  to 
Dunellen  to  the  train,  I'd  like  to  start  and  walk 
around  the  world." 

"John."    Judith's  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 

"Don't  feel  like  that,"  ho  answered,  roughly ;  "  it's 
bad  enough  for  me  to  feel  for  myself  without  feeling 
for  you.  I  have  always  thought  you  cared." 

"  I  do  care." 

"  That's  no  way  to  care." 

He  walked  off,  not  turning  for  her  low  word  of 
farewell 

She  would  have  kept  him  had  she  dared. 


COUSIN  DON. 


XXV. 

COUSIN  DON. 

"  If  we  are  ever  in  doubt  what  to  do,  it  is  a  good  rule  to  ask 
ourselves  what  we  shall  wish  on  the  morrow  we  had  done." 

SIR  JOHN  LUBBCCK. 

THE  first  day  of  September,  late  in  the  afternoon, 
Judith  stood  over  the  kitchen  stove  making  beef-tea 
for  Aunt  Eody.  The  weekly  letters  from  Don  had 
failed  —  failed  for  three  weeks ;  but  twice  before  in 
five  years  had  she  missed  a  letter.  At  the  step  be 
hind  her  she  did  not  raise  her  eyes ;  the  beef-tea  was 
ready  to  strain ;  at  this  moment  she  had  no  interest 
in  the  world  but  that  beef-tea. 

"  Judith,  are  you  ready  for  news  ? "  asked  Koger. 

"  Good  news  ? "  she  asked,  forgetting  her  beef-tea 
and  turning  towards  him,  radiant. 

"  That  depends  upon  how  you  take  it." 

"  I'll  take  it  in  the  way  to  make  it  good,  then.  I'm 
not  ready  for  anything  unpleasant,"  she  said,  with  a 
vain  attempt  to  keep  her  lips  from  quivering. 

"  Then  I'll  tell  you.  Guess  who  is  married.  But 
you  will  never  guess,"  he  replied  with  confident 
eagerness. 


306  GROWING   UP. 

"  Some  one  in  Bensalem  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Bensalem  is  all  my  world." 

"You  forget  somebody  on  the  other  side  of  the 
world." 

"  Not  Cousin  Don,"  in  the  most  startled  surprise. 

"Cousin  Don.  It's  a  stroke  of  genius,  or  some 
thing.  He  never  did  anything  like  other  people. 
Just  as  he  was  on  the  point  of  starting  for  home,  he 
decided  to  stay  and  marry  an  English  girl  he  found 
out  he  was  in  love  with ;  or  found  out  she  was  in 
love  with  him ;  he  seems  rather  surprised  himself. 
They  were  married  the  day  he  expected  to  sail  for 
home." 

"  Then  why  didn't  he  come  and  bring  her  ? "  asked 
Judith  as  soon  as  she  could  find  her  voice. 

"The  English  girl  would  rather  stay  in  England, 
or  on  the  Continent;  she  has  no  fancy  to  live  in 
America." 

"  I'm  afraid  —  he  didn't  want  to,"  said  Judith  who 
could  not  believe  that  Cousin  Don  had  failed  her. 

"  He  never  did  a  thing  he  didn't  want  to  in  his 
life."  . 

"  But  he  has  not  been  quite  fair  to  keep  it  from 
us ;  I  did  not  think  he  cou  Id  do  such  a  thing." 


COUSIN  DON.  307 

"  He  did  not  keep  it  all  from  me,"  Roger  leplied, 
seriously ;  "  perhaps  I  should  have  prepared  you  for 
it.  He  has  been  interested  in  her  for  some  time, 
visited  her  in  England  —  whether  he  did  not  know 
his  own  mind,  or  she  did  not  know  hers  does  not 
appear ;  but  now  they  both  seem  to  be  of  the  same 
mind.  Judith,  dear,  it  isn't  such  a  dreadful  thing." 

"  Not  to  you,"  said  Judith. 

Now,  he  would  never  come  and  take  her  away. 
No  one  would  ever  take  her  away.  She  did  not  be 
long  to  him  any  longer. 

"  Judith,"  began  Aunt  Affy,  hurriedly  in  the  kitch 
en  doorway.  "  Oh,  you  are  fixing  the  beef-tea." 

She  stiained  the  beef-tea,  salted  it,  poured  it  into 
a  cup,  and  went  to  Aunt  Body's  entry  bed-room  as  if 
she  were  in  a  dream,  not  thinking,  or  feeling  any 
thing  but  that  she  was  left  alone  in  the  world,  her 
Cousin  Don  had  cast  her  off,  he  had  broken  his  word 
to  her  mother,  he  had  not  cared  for  her  as  if  she 
were  his  little  sister.  He  did  not  even  care  to  write 
and  tell  her  that  he  was  married  and  not  coming 
home. 

"  Poor  child,"  Aunt  Affy  was  saying  in  the  kitch 
en,  "  it  will  break  her  heart." 


308  GROWING   UP. 

"  It  shall  not  break  her  heart,"  was  the  fierce  an 
swer.  "  I  would  rather  have  told  her  he  was  dead 
than  married  —  for  her  own  sake.  I  cannot  under 
stand  his  shameful  neglect.  No  money  has  come 
for  her  for  six  months  —  but  she  will  never  know 
that.  His  letter  to  me  gives  only  the  news  of  his 
marriage  —  his  first  letter  for  a  month  —  but  he  has 
never  written  to  me  regularly  as  he  has  to  her.  It 
would  be  a  satisfaction  to  run  over  to  England  to 
have  it  out  with  him." 

"  But  he  had  a  right  to  be  married,"  said  Aunt 
Affy,  doubtfully. 

"  I  am  not  questioning  that.  He  had  no  right  to 
hurt  this  child  so  —  she  has  believed  in  him  as  if  he 
were  an  angel  sent  out  of  Heaven  for  her  special 
protection." 

"  He  isn't  the  only  angel,"  said  Aunt  Affy,  com 
posedly.  "  I  have  been  counting  on  him.  That's  why 
I  have  had  no  help  —  I  didn't  bestir  myself  for  I  ex 
pected  news  of  his  coming  every  week.  Mrs.  Evans's 
sister,  a  widow  who  goes  out  nursing,  can  come 
the  middle  of  this  month.  I  didn't  tell  Judith.  I 
thought  she  was  happy  in  being  a  ministering 
angel  hersell  And  then  she  was  going  away  so 


COUSIN  DON.  309 

soon,  if  her  Cousin  Don  should  come  I  vranted  her 
here  when  he  came." 

"  You  had  better  send  for  the  nurse,"  said  Roger, 
dryly. 

"  I'll  go  after  supper  and  see  Mrs.  Evans.  I  sup 
pose  you  and  Miss  Marion  will  want  my  little  girl 
again." 

"  We  certainly  shall,"  replied  Roger  with  emphasis, 
"  more  than  ever,  now." 

"But  she  mustn't  be  an  expense  to  you,"  said 
Aunt  AfFy,  with  an  anxious  frown. 

"  Never  you  mind  the  expense.  If  I  don't  burn 
Don  Mackenzie  up  in  a  letter,  it  will  be  because 
there  are  no  words  hot  enough.  I  wish  I  could  send 
him  her  face  as  she  came  to  the  understanding  of 
my  news.  It  would  rather  mar  his  honeymoon. 
I've  kept  this  news  a  week,  and  now  I  had  to  come 
and  blurt  it  out" 


310  GROWING  UP. 


XXVL 

AUNT  APPY*S  FAITH  AND  JUDITH'S  FOREIGN  LETTER. 

"  If  I  could  only  surely  know 
That  all  these  things  that  tire  me  so 
Were  noticed  by  my  Lord." 

AT  the  supper  table  Aunt  Affy  asked  Judith  if 
she  would  sit  in  the  entry  near  Aunt  Rody's  door 
and  watch  while  she  "  ran  out  a  minute  to  see  Mrs. 
Evans  about  something." 

With  the  instinct  of  the  story-teller  Judith 
remembered  the  little  girl  who  used  to  sit  there  and 
sew  carpet-rags,  and  began  to  weave  herself  into  a 
story;  the  "The  Child's  Outlook"  was  not  very 
hopeful,  she  thought,  but  she  gave  the  story  a  happy 
ending,  just  as  she  herself  expected  to  have  a  happy 
ending.  She  did  not  know  why  she  had  to  sit  there 
and  watch;  there  had  been  no  change  for  days; 
perhaps  Aunt  Affy  wished  her  to  sit  and  watch  for 
Aunt  Rcdy  to  die.  The  light  from  a  shaded  lamp 
on  a  table  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  did  not  touch  the 


AUNT  AFFY'S  FAITH.  311 

sleeping  face  —  the  sleeping  face,  or  the  dead  face, 
and  Judith's  eyes  were  turned  away ;  she  was 
watching  without  seeing. 

She  was  too  miserable  to  open  a  book ;  she  was 
too  miserable  to  think;  she  thought  she  was  too 
miserable  to  pray. 

The  tears  came  softly,  softly  and  slowly;  face 
and  fingers  were  wet ;  the  only  cry  in  her  heart  was 
"  mother,  mother." 

"Mother,  I  want  you,"  she  sobbed,  "will  not  God 
let  you  come  back  a  little  while  ? " 

The  doors  were  wide  open  all  through  the  house ; 
in  the  sitting-room  there  were  low  voices,  at  first 
her  dulled  ears  caught  no  articulate  word,  then  the 
voice  of  Mrs.  Evans  spoke  clearly :  she  was  saying 
something  about  "  faith." 

Perhaps,  the  listener  thought  penitently,  she 
herself  was  weeping  because  she  had  no  faith. 

Now  Aunt  Affy  was  speaking ;  she  loved  to  hear 
Aunt  Affy  talk.  Mrs.  Evans  must  have  come  and 
hindered  Aunt  Affy  in  her  call ;  perhaps  they  both 
wished  to  talk  about  the  same  thing ;  but  they  were 
both  talking  about  faith.  She  wished  Aunt  Eody 
might  hear;  she  was  afraid  Aunt  Rody  was  lying 


312  GROWING   UP. 

there    uncomforted.      She    had    never  thought  of 
Aunt  Body  as  a  "  disciple." 

In  Judith's  thought  Aunt  Affy  dwelt  apart. 

If  you  called  upon  Mrs.  Finch  she  would  ask  you 
to  "  step  in  "  to  the  kitchen  where  her  work  was 
going  on ;  Mrs.  Evans  with  conscious  pride  would 
throw  open  to  you  the  door  of  her  prettily  furnished 
parlor;  Agnes  Trembly  would  take  you  into  her 
sewing-room;  a  call  upon  the  minister  meant  the 
study;  Marion's  guests  were  made  at  home  every 
where  within  and  without  the  parsonage ;  but  Aunt 
Affy's  visitor  was  taken  to  her  sanctuary,  the  place 
where  she  prayed  to  God  and  worshipped,  to  the 
inmost  chamber  of  her  consecrated  heart.  Aunt  Affy 
kept  nothing  back ;  she  gave  herself. 

With  lifted  head,  and  intent  eyes,  there  in  the 
dark  she  listened  to  Aunt  Affy's  impressive  speaking : 

"  Once,  it  was  in  June,  I  was  in  prayer-meeting, 
and  I  was  constrained  —  a  pressure  was  upon  me  — 
to  pray  for  more  faith.  I  must  have  more  faith. 
Not  aware  that  I  was  in  special  need  through  trial 
or  temptation,  I  hesitated.  Could  I  ask  for  what 
I  did  not  feel  the  need  of  ?  But  only  for  an  instant, 
the  constraint  was  strong,  and  so  sweet  (the  very 


AUNT  AFFT*S  FA1TB.  $13 

touch  of  the  Holy  Spirit),  and  in  faith  I  asked  for 
more  faith.  Then  I  trembled.  Might  this  sweet 
pressure  not  be  a  prophecy  of  sorrow  ?  Had  I  not 
just  this  experience,  and  a  few  days  later  brought 
the  tidings  of  the  sudden  death  of  one  very  dear  to 
me  ?  I  had  the  asked-for  faith  then,  and  it  bore  me 
through.  Was  this  constraint  the  comfort  coming 
beforehand  ?  To  take  God's  will  as  he  would  have 
me  take  it,  I  must  needs  have  this  faith.  It  was 
not  too  hard  before ;  could  I  not  trust  him  again  ? 

"  Before  the  week  was  over,  unexpected  happiness 
was  given  me.  Ah,  I  thought,  this  is  what  the  faith  is 
for !  For  we  cannot  take  happiness  and  make  him 
glorious  in  it,  but  for  this  faith.  God  knows  we 
need  faith  to  bear  prosperity.  So  for  days  the 
happiness  and  faith  went  on  together,  and  then, 
don't  be  afraid,  dear  heart,  and  then  came,  but  not 
with  the  shock  of  suddenness,  the  great  strain,  when 
heart  and  flesh  must  have  failed  but  for  the  faith 
the  Holy  Spirit  constrained  me  to  ask.  The  prayer 
was  in  June  —  all  August  was  the  answer." 

"Affy  Sparrow,  you  make  me  afraid,"  was  Mrs. 
Evans's  quick,  almost  indignant  answer. 

"  If  you  will  only  think  you  will  not  be  afraid." 


314  GROWING  UP. 

Judith  listening,  was  not  afraid.  Never  since 
her  mother  went  away  and  left  her  alone  with  Aunt 
Afly  had  she  felt  the  need  of  faith,  of  holding  on  to 
her  heavenly  Father,  as  she  did  to-night 

"At  one  time,"  Aunt  Affy  went  on  with  her 
fervent,  glad  faith,  "  I  was  moved  to  cry  out :  '  O, 
Lord,  do  not  leave  me,  I  shall  fall,  I  cannot  keep 
myself,  there  is  nothing  to  keep  myself  in  me.'  I 
awoke  that  night  again  and  again  with  the  same 
cry  in  my  heart,  the  same  agony  on  my  lips.  How 
can  he  leave  me  ? '  I  asked  myself  over  and  over. 
'  It  is  not  like  him ;  especially  when  I  have  begged 
him  to  stay.'  Was  I  in  the  shadow  of  a  temptation 
that  was  to  come?  The  next  day  the  temptation 
came ;  for  one  overpowering  instant  I  was  left  to 
wonder  if  he  had  left  me ;  then  I  knew  that  he  was 
perfect  truth  as  well  as  perfect  loye ;  I  said :  '  Lord, 
I  am  very  simple,  be  simple  with  me.'  Then  the 
wave  rolled  over  me,  not  touchipg  me.  I  was 
tempted  —  tempted  to  unbelief ;  but  was  I  tempted  ? 
Did  the  temptation  come  near  enough  for  that  ?  I 
could  only  say  over  and  over,  Lord,  I  believe  in 
thee.  My  temptation  came  and  he  did  aot  leave 
me." 


AUNT  AFFY'S  FAITH.  315 

"Affy,  you  are  supernatural.  You  have  super 
natural  experiences,"  replied  Mrs.  Evans  in  a  tone  of 
awe,  and  considerable  displeasure. 

"You  and  I  do  not  know  what  other  people  in 
Bensalem  are  going  through,"  was  the  gentle  re 
monstrance. 

"  I  hope  not  through  such  terrible  things  as  that." 

"I  hoped  I  was  helping  you,"  said  Aunt  Affy, 
grieved. 

"  That  doesn't  help.  It  doesn't  help  me.  I'd  be 
afraid  to  pray  for  faith  if  I  knew  it  was  to  prepare 
me  for  trouble." 

"  Would  you  rather  be  unprepared  for  trouble  ? " 
was  the  quiet  question. 

"  I'd  rather  the  trouble  wouldn't  come." 

"Then  you  would  rather  God  wouldn't  have  his 
way  with  you." 

"I  don't  like  that  way,  I  confess,  but  I  have  to 
have  trouble  like  everybody  else.  You  have  had 
as  little  of  it  —  the  worst  kind  I  mean,  as  anybody 
ever  had  —  your  troubles  have  been  spiritual  troubles, 
and  you  are  having  your  own  way  now  about  every 
thing." 

"Yea,  too  much.     I'm  afraid  every  day  of  being 


316  ^GROWING  UP. 

a  selfish,  careless  woman.  A  dozen  times  a  day  I 
wonder  what  Eody  would  say  to  me  if  she  only 
knew  what  we  are  doing;  selling  the  milk  for 
instance.  Sometimes  I  stop  in  the  middle  of  some 
thing  as  if  her  hand  were  on  my  shoulder.  Your 
sister  can  come  next  week,  then  ? " 

"  As  far  as  I  know ;  shell  be  ten  times  better  help 
than  Judith ;  she's  strong  and  used  to  sickness. 
She  can  lift  Rody,  and  that's  what  you  want.  I 
thought  the  parsonage  folks  had  spoilt  Judith  for 
you  by  making  her  too  much  of  a  lady." 

"  Judith  is  not  spoiled,"  was  the  quiet  rejoinder. 

"You  will  find  my  sister  Sarah  ready  for  any 
emergency.  What  do  you  think  she's  been  doing  to 
get  into  the  paper  ?  She  sent  me  the  paper  with  the 
thing  marked  in  it.  I  wish  I  had  brought  the 
paper;  I'll  show  it  to  you  some  time.  You  know 
she  lives,  when  she's  at  home,  near  a  tunnel ;  well 
that  tunnel  caved  in  one  day  just  after  a  passenger 
train  had  passed  through ;  she  knew  there  would  be 
another  train  soon,  and  she  had  her  red  petticoat 
ready  and  ran  out  as  it  came  thundering  on,  and 
swung  it  in  the  air  until  she  stopped  the  train  — 
and  just  within  a  few  feet  of  the  tunnel,  too. 
Wasn't  that  pluck?" 


AUNT  AFFY'S  FAITH.  317 

"  Where's  Judith  ?  "  called  Joe's  voice.  "  I  have  a 
letter  for  her ;  one  of  the  foreign  letters  she  used  to 
be  so  raving  glad  to  get." 

In  the  half  light  Judith  sprang  toward  the  letter. 
There  was  no  light  in  the  sitting-room ;  on  the 
kitchen  table  a  lamp  was  burning ;  she  was  glad  tc 
read  it  unquestioned.  Snatching  at  its  meaning  she 
ran  through  the  three  thin  sheets ;  then  she  read  it 
deliberately,  understandingly. 

He  had  written  to  tell  her  of  his  marriage,  and 
two  weeks  afterward,  on  his  wedding  tour,  found 
the  unmailed  letter  in  his  pocket.  That  letter  he 
had  destroyed,  and,  after  a  week  to  plan  and  decide 
what  to  propose  to  her,  had  written  again  —  was 
writing  again  now,  in  fact.  The  shortest  way  to  her 
forgiveness  he  believed  to  be  to  ask  her  to  come  to 
England,  not  to  be  his  housekeeper,  but  to  be  his 
wife's  dear  little  friend  and  cousin,  as  well  as  his 
own.  But,  if  she  decided  not  to  do  that,  and  the 
plan  did  have  its  disadvantages  (he  had  not  yet 
asked  his  wife's  advice  or  consent),  would  she  be 
happy  to  stay  on  at  the  parsonage,  or  at  Aunt  Affy's 
just  as  usual?  He  would  never  forget  her,  she 
would  always  be  his  dearest  little  cousin  in  the 


318  GROWING   UP. 

world,  and  he  knew  she  and  Florence  would  be  the 
best  of  friends  if  they  could  know  each  other.  Flor 
ence  had  a  prejudice  against  America,  but  that  would 
wear  off.  He  very  much  regretted  he  had  never 
written  about  Florence,  but  she  was  something  of  n 
flirt  and  had  never  allowed  him  to  be  sure  of  her 
until  she  knew  he  had  taken  passage  for  America. 
He  hoped  she  would  write  to  Florence  and  then  they 
would  understand  each  other  better.  She  must  be 
sure  to  write  to  him  by  return  mail.  He  hoped  the 
delayed  letter  had  not  made  her  uncomfortable. 
He  was  always  her  devoted  Cousin  Don. 

Mrs.  Evans  went  home,  passing  through  the 
kitchen ;  Aunt  Affy  had  told  her  of  the  unexpected 
marriage  of  Judith's  cousin;  she  was  curious  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  girl's  face  over  his  letter.  It 
would  be  something  to  tell  Nettie.  With  her  usual 
thoughtfulness  Aunt  Affy  asked  no  question  con 
cerning  the  letter.  That  night  Judith  could  not 
bring  herself  to  show  the  letter ;  the  next  morning 
she  gave  it  to  her  to  read,  and  then  asked  if  she 
might  be  spared  to  go  to  the  parsonage. 

"Yes,  dear  child.  And  stay  all  day  if  you  like. 
Ill  do  for  Body.  She  will  not  ask  for  you.  She 


AUNT  AFFY'S  FAITH.  319 

called  me  Becky  in  the  night.  It's  the  first  time 
she  has  not  recognized  me.  And  when  Mrs.  Evans's 
sister,  Mrs.  Treadwell  comes,  you  may  go  and  have 
a  long  rest  and  study  again." 

"  I  don't  deserve  that,"  said  Judith,  breaking  into 
sobs ;  "I  haven't  been  good,  and  I  don't  deserve  any 
thing." 

"  No  matter,  you'll  get  it  just  the  same,"  said  Aunt 
Affy,  patting  her   shoulder  with    a    loving    touch. 
"  And,  after  this,  you  are  to  come  to  me  for  money  — 
you  are  to  be  my  own  child ;  my  little  girl,  and 
Cephas'  little  girl." 

With  her  head  on  Aunt  Affy's  shoulder  Judith 
laughed  and  cried ;  she  even  began  to  feel  glad  of 
something  —  not  that  Don  was  married,  or  that  she 
was  not  to  be  his  housekeeper,  or  that  she  was  not 
to  be  Aunt  Rody's  nurse ;  it  was  almost  wrong  to  be 
glad  when  she  should  be  disappointed;  then  she 
knew  she  was  glad  because  no  one  in  all  the  world 
had  the  right  to  take  her  away  from  the  parsonage. 

The  way  of  obedience  had  been  easier  than  she 
thought.  She  stayed  that  day  with  Aunt  Eody, 
doing  little  last  things  for  her,  and  telling  Aunt 
Affy  ways  of  nursing  that  pleased  Aunt  Rody  that 
she  had  discovered  for  herself. 


320  GROWING  UP. 

"  She  will  miss  you,"  Aunt  Affy  said  that  evening, 
as  Judith  came  into  the  sitting-room  dressed  for  her 
walk.  Doodles  was  snoring  upon  his  cushion  on  the 
lounge ;  Uncle  Cephas,  at  the  round  table,  was  lost 
in  the  day's  paper ;  Joe,  at  another  table,  was  read 
ing  a  book  he  had  found  under  rubbish  in  the  store 
room:  this  last  year  he  had  developed  a  taste  for 
books. 

The  girl  lingered,  with  her  satchel  in  her  hand ; 
the  dear  old  home  was  a  hard  place  to  leave ;  with 
out  the  cloud  of  Aunt  Eody's  presence  it  was  peace 
and  sunshine. 

Aunt  Affy,  with  her  pretty,  grey  head,  her  light 
step,  her  words  of  comfort  and  courage,  moved  about 
like  a  benediction ;  Uncle  Cephas,  rough  and  kindly, 
with  strength  in  reserve  for  every  emergency,  gave, 
to  the  house  the  headship  it  had  always  lacked; 
Joe,  to-night,  was  fine  and  sturdy,  and  growing  into 
somebody;  would  they  miss  her? 

Was  the  girl  going  away  any  real  part  of  the 
strength  and  beauty  of  the  old  Sparrow  place  ? 

She  was  going  because  she  chose  to  go. 

Joe  had  asked  her  if  she  were  "going  for  good," 
Was  to-night  another  turning-point? 


AUNT  AFFY'S  FAITH.  321 

If  she  stayed  would  her  life  to  come  be  any  differ 
ent? 

In  anybody's  eyes  was  there  a  difference  between 
belonging  to  the  parsonage  and  belonging  to  the 
Sparrow  place  ? 

No  one  was  taking  her  away,  she  was  going  of  her 
own  free  will. 

With  a  sudden  impulse  she  dropped  her  satchel 
in  Aunt  Body's  empty  chair  and  ran  up  the  kitchen 
stairs  to  stay  a  few  moments  alone  in  the  chamber 
her  mother  used  to  have  when  she  was  a  little  girl. 


322  GROWING  UP, 

XXVII. 

HIS  VERY  BEST. 
"Lord,  teach  us  to  pray." —  Luke  xi.  1. 

"  O  Thou,  by  whom  we  come  to  God, 

The  Life,  the  Truth,  the  Way ! 
The  path  of  prayer  Thyself  hast  trod ; 
Lord,  teach  me  to  pray." 

JUDITH  stood  on  the  parsonage  piazza ;  a  voice 
within  was  unfamiliar,  then  in  a  change  of  tone  she 
recognized  something  and  was  reminded  of  her  after 
noon  at  Meadow  Centre ;  that  laugh  she  had  heard 
before,  it  was  not  Don  —  it  was  —  the  face  at  the  win 
dow  looked  out  into  the  shadows,  —  it  was  Eichard 
King.  He  was  a  strong  tower ;  he  was  safe,  like  her 
parsonage  life ;  she  would  go  in  and  feel  at  home. 
No  new  face  or  voice  would  ever  come  between  and 
keep  her  away.  Across  the  room,  as  she  discovered 
by  a  peep  through  the  curtains,  Marion  sat  with 
some  of  her  usual  pretty  work  in  her  hand ;  Eoger 
was  not  there. 

"  III  the  excavations  in  Babylon,"  Mr.  King  went 


HIS  VERT  BEST.  323 

on  in  easy  continuation  of  the  subject  in  hand,  "a 
collection  of  bowls  was  found,  inscribed  with  adjura 
tions  of  all  sorts  of  spirits  by  name,  and  with  indica 
tions  that  could  not  be  mistaken  of  medicines  they 
once  held.  You  know,  that  capital  E  with  which 
the  physician  heads  his  prescription,  believing  it 
stands  for  Eecipe,  in  the  days  of  superstition  was 
understood  to  be  an  appeal  to  Jupiter." 

"  That  was  consistent,"  Marion  replied,  still  bend 
ing  over  her  work. 

"  Imagine  our  physicians  writing  at  the  head  of  a 
prescription :  In  the  name  of  Jesus  Christ." 

"  As  Peter  did  when  he  healed  the  lame  man." 

"  Our  old  Meadow  Brook  physician  prays  with  his 
patients  very  often ;  I  tell  him  he  leaves  nothing  for 
the  parson  to  do." 

"  Eoger  says  sometimes  the  doctor  has  a  way  of 
getting  nearer  our  Bensalem  people  than  he  has." 

"  I  am  not  sure  of  that.  They  tell  the  doctor  a 
different  kind  of  trouble.  You  would  be  amazed  — 
if  you  were  not  the  minister's  sister  —  at  the  his 
tories  people  tell  me  about  themselves,  and  their 
neighbors." 

"  I  am  always  delighted  that  people  have  a  story 


324  GROWING   UP. 

to  tell.  When  I  first  came  to  Bensalem  I  thought 
no  man,  woman,  or  child,  lived  a  life  worth  living. 
Now  I  know  the  sweetest  stories.  Aunt  Affy  is 
one,  and  Nettie  Evans,  and  even  her  hard-featured 
mother  brims  over  once  in  a  while  with  an  expe 
rience." 

The  coming  back  from  Babylon  to  Bensalem 
brought  Judith  to  the  consciousness  that  she  might 
be  considered  an  eavesdropper;  at  that  instant 
Roger  entered  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  remarking :  "  Let's 
be  informal,  like  Wordsworth.  He  used  to  take  out 
his  teeth  evenings  when  he  did  not  expect  callers." 

"  But  you  have  a  caller,"  remonstrated  Marion, 
when  the  laughter  ceased. 

'  Yes,  and  here's  another  one,"  Koger  replied,  as 
Judith  walked  softly  in.  "  Judith,  must  I  put  on 
my  coat  ?  I've  been  potting  plants  for  Marion  and  I 
couldn't  afford  to  soil  my  coat." 

"  Yes,"  said  Judith,  who  was  always  on  Marion's 
side  in  influencing  the  Bensalem  minister  to  remem 
ber  the  claims  of  society. 

"  I  wish  you  had  stayed  at  home.  What  are  you 
looking  so  full  of  news  about  ? " 

"I  have  come  back  —  to  stay.  No  one  else  in 
the  world  wants  me." 


HIS  VERY  BEST.  325 

"And  we  don't,"  declared  Eoger. 

Something  in  the  gleam  of  the  eyes  under  Eichard 
King's  tangled  eyebrows  was  a  revelation  to  Marion. 
She  knew  his  secret.  She  would  keep  it.  Eoger 
was  stupid,  he  would  never  guess.  But  how  could 
she  keep  it  from  Judith  ?  Poor  little  Judith,  was 
she  growing  up  to  have  a  love  story?  To-night 
Marion  did  not  like  love  stories. 

She  wished  the  tall  girl  with  the  serious  eyes  and 
braided  hair  were  a  little  girl  with  long  curls. 

"Did  you  get  a  letter  from  Don  to-night?5*  Eoger 
asked. 

"Yes." 

"How  do  you  like  it?" 

"I — think  I  like  it.  It  will  not  make  any  dif 
ference  to  me  —  only  the  difference  that  it  hasn't 
made." 

"  A  good  distinction,"  remarked  Eichard  King. 

"May  I  go  upstairs,  Marion?" 

"Surely — your  room  has  been  waiting  for  you  as 
the  Holy  Land  waited  for  the.  Israelites  to  return 
from  their  captivity;  nobody  spoiled  either,  or  oc 
cupied  either." 

"  Mine  was  not  seventy  years,"  said  Judith,  "  al 
though  sometimes  it  seemed  like  it* 


326  GROWING    UP. 

Marion  did  not  follow  her;  it  would  not  be  an 
easy  thing  to  talk  to  Judith  about  Don's  marriage ; 
she  was  relieved  that  the  only  view  the  girl  would 
take  of  it  would  be  in  regard  to  the  difference  it 
made  to  herself. 

When  Judith  returned,  feeling  as  much  at  home 
as  though  she  had  been  away  but  for  a  night,  Marion 
was  matching  silks  for  her  work,  and  the  gentlemen 
were  talking,  sitting  opposite  each  other  in  the  bay 
window. 

It  had  been  so  long  since  she  had  heard  Roger 
talk;  that  "talk"  was  one  of  the  delights  of  her 
parsonage  life.  She  had  heard  him  preach  but  once 
during  her  stay  at  Aunt  Affy's. 

"That  point  about  praying  came  up,"  Mr.  King 
was  saying,  "and  I  am  not  satisfied  with  the  an 
swer  I  gave.  The  man  gave  his  experience  —  it  was 
an  experience  of  years  —  and  then  he  asked  me  what 
was  the  matter  with  his  prayer,  and  I  decidedly  did 
not  know.  I  know  he  has  fulfilled  the  conditions, 
praying  in  faith,  and  in  the  name  of  Christ,  and  the 
thing  prayed  for  was  innocent  in  itself.  He  said, 
"  What  is  the  matter  with  me  ? "  and  I  could  not  tell. 
He  went  away  unsatisfied.  I  went  down  on  my 


BIS  VERT  BEST.  327 

knees,  you  may  be  sure,  thinking  something  was  the 
matter  with  me  because  I  had  no  illumination  for 
him." 

Eoger's  strong,  brown  hand  was  stretched  along 
the  arm  of  his  chair';  he  looked  down  at  his  fingers 
in  deep  thought 

"  He  said  he  had  been  praying  months  to  learn  if 
the  petition  in  itself  were  not  acceptable  to  God,  and 
had,  he  thought,  studied  a  hundred  prayers  in  the 
Bible,  comparing  his  prayer  with  the  acceptable  and 
unacceptable  prayers  of  the  old  saints." 

"  He  is  determined  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  it," 
said  Koger. 

"  I  never  saw  a  man  more  determined.  I  quoted 
Phillips  Brooks  to  him:  'You  have  not  got  your  an 
swer,  but  you  have  got  God.' " 

"  He  was  not  satisfied  with  that  getting  ? " 

"  No.  He  said  he  knew  he  should  not  be  satisfied 
until  he  had  God's  answer  to  himself.  I  think  he 
has  almost  lost  sight  of  the  thing  he  was  anxious 
for  when  he  began  to  pray.  It  has  been  worth  a 
course  in  theology  to  him." 

Marion  dropped  her  silks ;  Judith  was  listening 
with  all  the  eagerness  of  her  childhood.  She  felt 
sure  Aunt  Affy  could  explain  the  difficulty 


328  GROWING  UP. 

"The  thing  that  strikes  me,"  began  Roger,  "k 
that  he  may  be  like  those  men  sent  to  the  house  of 
God  to  inquire  about  fasting." 

"  Well  ? "  questioned  Eichard  King. 

"  These  men  went  to  pray  before  the  Lord  and  to 
ask  a  question.  Their  question  was  about  fasting; 
but  fasting  has  to  do  with  praying — your  friend 
has  certainly  been  in  a  weeping  and  fasting  spirit 
They  asked:  Should  I  weep  in  the  fifth  month 
separating  myself,  as  I  have  done  these  so  many 
years? 

"The  Lord's  answer  came  through  the  prophet 
Zechariah.  He  understood  all  about  that  so  many 
years  separating  themselves  and  fasting.  He  told 
them  the  fasting  was  not  so  much  to  him  as  for 
them  to  hear  the  words  which  the  Lord  hath  cried 
by  the  former  prophets.  They  might  better  study 
his  revealed  will  than  seek  to  find  a  new  answer  to 
this  question  of  fasting.  The  fasting  in  itself  was 
all  right  if  they  wished  to  fast.  '  When  ye  fasted  did 
ye  do  it  to  me? '  he  asked.  '  When  ye  did  eat  and 
when  ye  did  drink,  did  ye  not  eat  for  yourselves, 
and  drink  for  yourselves  ? '  In  feasting  and  fasting 
they  had  been  selfish.  Then  he  gives  them  plain 


HIS   VERY  BEST.  329 

words  of  command,  like  the  plain  words  the  former 
prophets  had  spoken.  Obedience  was  better  than 
fasting ;  better  even  than  coming  to  him  to  inquire 
about  fasting.  There  is  a  parallel  in  the  history  of 
one  of  Joshua's  prayers.  He  could  not  understand 
why  the  people  should  flee  before  their  enemies. 
Then  he  rent  his  clothes  and  fell  to  the  earth,  the 
elders,  also,  all  day,  with  dust  on  their  heads ;  pray 
ing  and  fasting. 

"  But  the  Lord's  answer  was :  Get  thee  up ;  where 
fore  liest  thou  thus  upon  thy  face  ? 

"  Tell  your  old  man  praying  and  fasting  are  good, 
but  sometimes  God  has  enough  of  them.  He  pre 
fers  obedience.  The  conditions  of  the  covenant  had 
been  violated  by  disobedience  in  both  instances. 
Praying  in  faith,  and  in  the  name  of  Christ,  are  but 
two  conditions ;  hearing  and  obeying  is  a  third  con 
dition.  Your  man  may  be  in  the  midst  of  a  very 
interesting  experience,  but  I  would  advise  him  to 
stop  questioning  the  Lord,  and  try  what  a  little  obe 
dience  would  do." 

"  But,  he's  a  good  man,  Eoger,"  urged  Judith. 
"  only  a  good  man  could  bear  a  trial  like  that." 

"Good  men  have   favorite  little  ways  of  disobe- 


330  GROWING    UP. 

dience,  sometimes;  God's  own  remedy  is  more  obe 
dience." 

"I  wish  we  could  know  all  about  it — the  rest  of 
the  story,  and,  if  he  ever  has  his  prayer,"  said  Marion, 
to  whom  "  people  "  were  becoming  a  real  and  live 
interest. 

"  Joshua  had  his  prayer.  The  story  of  Ai  is  the 
story  of  how  God  answers  prayer  when  he  has  made 
way  for  it;  it  shows  his  disciplinary  government; 
it  places  obedience  before  all  things ;  obedience 
makes  God's  answers  to  prayer  a  natural  proceeding." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  have  depended  too  much  on  prayer," 
Judith  answered,  troubled. 

"  Oh,  no,"  Mr.  King  reassured  her,  "  only  you 
have  not  depended  enough  on  obedience.  I  will  call 
upon  my  old  man  to-morrow  and  tell  him  these  two 
stories  of  disciplinary  government." 

"  You  are  not  going  home,  to-night,  old  fellow," 
urged  Koger, "  the  girls  will  give  us  some  music.  We 
four  will  make  a  fine  quartette." 

"Miss  Judith,  did  you  know  I  ha7e  a  house 
keeper  ? "  he  asked,  turning  brightly  to  Judith. 

"  I  am  very  glad." 

"  So  are  we  all  of  us,"  declared  Bogei 


SIS  VERY  BEST.  331 

"  A  man  and  his  wife  I  have  taken  in.  She's  a 
good  cook ;  the  house  is  a  different  affair ;  I  wish 
you  would  come  and  see.  The  man  gets  work 
among  the  farmers  and  takes  care  of  my  horse, 
which  I  used  to  do  myself.  They  are  both  grateful 
for  a  home  and  I  am  very  happy  to  be  set  in  a 
family." 

Judith  fell  asleep  thinking  of  Aunt  Rody's  beef- 
tea,  and  wondering  if  Aunt  Affy  would  remember  to 
keep  the  water  bag  at  her  poor,  cold  feet. 

It  was  luxury  to  be  at  home  again ;  to  be  at  home 
and  in  the  way  of  obedience.  That  was  God's  will 
on  earth  as  it  was  in  Heaven. 

The  next  day  the  gentlemen  went  fishing  and 
Marion  and  Judith  kept  the  long  day  to  themselves. 
In  the  afternoon  Marion  and  Nettie  had  their 
weekly  history  talk,  and,  Judith  shut  herself  up  in 
the  study  and  wrote  a  story  about  a  girl  who  learned 
a  new  lesson  in  the  way  of  obedience.  The  story 
was  from  a  child's  standpoint ;  in  writing  for  children 
she  was  keeping  her  heart  as  fresh  as  the  heart  of  a 
little  child. 

"Judith,"  said  Roger  that  evening  as  the  "quar 
tette  "  were  together  in  the  study,  "  I  have  a  thought 


332  GROWING  UP. 

of  work  for  you ;  you  smell  work  from  afar  as  the 
warhorse  scents  the  battle ;  how  would  you  like  to 
write  up  the  childhood  of  a  dozen  famous  women  ? 
The  study  itself  will  be  delightful,  and  the  writing 
more  so.  Call  the  series :  '  When  I  was  a  Girl'  " 

"  I  would  like  it,"  was  the  unhesitating  reply,  "  if 
I  can  do  it" 

"  You  can  do  it      You  can  do  anything  you  like." 

*  Then  I  will,"  she  decided,  thus  encouraged. 

"  But  the  books  ? "  said  Eichard  King,  ready  to 
place  his  own  bookshelves  at  her  service. 

"  Oh,  the  books  are  easily  found.  There's  our 
school  library,  and  the  Public  Library  in  Dunellen, 
and  everybody's  house  to  ransack  in  Bensalem. 
Besides,  my  own  library  is  no  mean  affair.  Books 
and  fishing  are  my  laziness  and  luxury.  No  hurried 
work,  Judith,  remember.  You  shall  not  read  the 
first  one  of  the  series  to  me  until  a  month  from 
to-day." 

"  Are  you  such  a  slow  worker  yourself  ? "  Roger's 
friend  inquired. 

"  I  am  a  plodder.  And  I  believe  in  other  people 
plodding.  I  believe  that  genius  is  an  infinite 
capacity  for  taking  pains.  I  have  sermons  laid 
away  to  mellow  that  I've  been  six  months  on." 


HIS   VERT  BEST.  333 

"But  you  do  other  writing  and  studying  in  the 
mean  time,"  said  Judith. 

"  Oh,  yes,  while  the  seed  is  sprouting." 

"  Kenney,  you  are  planning  something." 

"Yes,  I  am  planning  to  salt  down  a  barrel  of 
eermons  before  I  take  a  new  charge." 

"  Mellowing,  salting,  sprouting,"  laughed  Judith. 

"  Eoger,  a  new  charge ! "  exclaimed  Marion, 
startled. 

"  A  new  charge,  my  dear  sister.  I  am  too  small 
for  Bensalem,  they  need  a  bigger  man  here." 

"But,  Eoger,"  remonstrated  Judith,  with  big, 
distressed  eyes ;  "  will  you  not  give  dear,  little  Ben 
salem  your  best  ? " 

"  My  very  best,"  he  answered,  solemnly. 


334  GROWING  UP. 

XXVIII. 

A  NEW  ANXIETY. 

41  Our  eyes  see  all  around,  in  gloom  or  glow, 
Hues  of  their  own  fresh  borrowed  from  the  heart" 

KEBLE. 

IT  was  chilly  that  evening  in  the  old  rooms  of  the 
house  with  three  windows  in  the  roof ;  Boger  Ken- 
ney's  father  and  mother  sat  near  the  grate  in  the 
front  parlor;  curtains  and  portieres  were  dropped, 
the  piano  lamp  with  its  crimson  silk  shade  threw  a 
glow  over  the  two  faces  sitting  in  cosy  content  op 
posite  each  other.  The  house  was  still;  the  girls, 
Martha  and  Lou,  and  the  two  boys,  Maurice  and 
John,  had  gone  down  town  to  an  illustrated  lecture 
on  India ;  the  maid  had  her  evening  out ;  even  Nip> 
the  house-dog,  had  gone  out  for  an  evening  ramble  ; 
the  two  "  old  people,"  as  in  their  early  sixties  they 
loved  to  call  each  other,  were  alone  with  each  other 
and  a  new  anxiety. 

Mr.  Kenney  told  his  wife  that  nothing  in  the 
world  made  her  quite  so  happy  as  a  new  worry,  and 
he  wished  he  could  get  one  for  her  oftener. 


A  NEW  ANXIETY.  335 

"  This  will  do  for  awhile,"  she  remarked ;  "  but  this 
isn't  as  bad  as  that  old  trouble  of  Marion's ;  a  man 
can  work  himself  out ;  and  Eoger  has  work  enough 
on  hand  for  two  worries." 

"  Now,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  this  ?  "  in 
quired  her  husband,  folding  the  evening's  paper  and 
laying  it  upon  his  knee.  "  You  sent  Marion  to  Ben* 
salem  for  her  charm ;  will  you  get  Eoger  away  for 
his?" 

"That  would  do  no  good,"  she  replied,  discon 
tentedly,  "he  would  not  be  got  away  in  the  first 
place,  and  Judith  is  not  a  fixture  in  Bensalem." 

"Judith  is  worth  having,"  was  the  complacent 
reply. 

"  That's  the  worst  of  it.     So  was  Don  Mackenzie." 

"  It's  the  best  of  it,  I  think.  You  wouldn't  have 
your  boys  and  girls  carried  away  by  somebody  not 
worth  having." 

"  But,  then,  being  disappointed  in  somebody  might 
help  them  bear  it,  and  turn  them  around  to  look  at 
somebody  else." 

"  A  disappointment  like  that  is  poor  consolation." 

"  I  don't  suppose  the  disappointment  is  the  conso~ 
lation.  The  somebody  else  is." 


336  GROWING  UP. 

"  You  never  had  the  consolation  of  the  somebody 
else." 

"I  have  only  had  the  consolation  of  you,"  she  re 
torted. 

"  Marion  has  never  taken  up  with  anybody."  he 
said,  reflectively. 

"  She  has  had  no  chance  —  " 

"  That  you  know,"  he  interrupted. 

"  —  That  I  know,"  she  accepted  meekly,  "except 
ing  David  Prince." 

"  She  wouldn't  look  at  him." 

"  No,  she  wouldn't.  He  was  younger  in  the  first 
place — and  so  different  from  Don." 

"I'd  like  to  see  that  English  beauty  Don  has 
married." 

"  How  do  you  know  she  is  a  beauty  ? "  asked 
Marion's  mother,  with  a  touch  of  jealousy. 

"  Oh,  he  wrote  that  to  Roger  in  his  first  young 
admiration.  An  orphan,  living  with  an  uncle, 
years  younger,  a  capricious  beauty,  with  a  little 
money ;  wasn't  that  the  description  ?  " 

"  Something  like  it.  Marion  has  carried  herself 
well  about  this  marriage." 

"  Why  shouldn't  she  ?  She  had  nothing  to  carry 
herself  about" 


A  NEW  ANXIETY.  837 

'•'  You  don't  know  girls.    A  memory  is  a  memory." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  he  laughed. 

"  But  this  is  not  helping  us  out  about  Roger,"  she 
remarked,  ignoring  his  words  and  laugh. 

"  Eoger  will  help  himself  out ;  he  isn't  his  father's 
son  for  nothing." 

"As  Marion  was  not  her  mother's  girl  for 
nothing,"  was  the  demure  reply. 

"  How  do  you  know  —  how  can  you  be  so  certain 
sure  that  he  wants  Judith  ? " 

"  She  is  the  very  light  of  his  eyes.  She  has  been 
for  years.  A  mother  can  see.  The  thought  of  her 
is  always  about  him." 

"Does  Marion  see  it?"  Roger's  father  inquired, 
convinced.  He  had  a  thorough  respect  for  his  wife's 
judgment. 

"  No ;  that's  the  queer  part  of  it.  I  think  Roger 
is  guarded  with  her.  He  never  had  a  secret  from 
his  mother." 

"  Young  men  never  have,"  the  young  man's  father 
threw  in. 

"  But  I  know  Roger ;  I  wouldn't  be  afraid  to  ask 
him." 

"  Then,  why  don't  you  ?  " 


338  GROWING  UP. 

"Because  I  know  without  asking,"  she  silenced 
him, 

"  Now,  to  come  back  to  the  starting  point  —  what 
do  you  intend  to  do  about  it? " 

"  Bring  Judith  here,"  she  replied  impressively. 

"  That's  a  fine  move ;  an  effectual  separation." 

"If  I  could  send  her  anywhere  else  he  would 
think  it  his  duty  to  go  and  see  her,  he  would  have 
to  know  how  she  was  doing  —  pay  her  bills,  and 
so  forth.  There's  no  one  else  to  be  a  father  to  her. 
Mrs.  Brush  leaves  everything  with  him.  She  has 
no  knowledge  of  any  world  outside  of  that  village." 

"  Perhaps  she  is  trying  to  catch  him  for  Judith." 

"  Such  a  worldly  thought  would  never  enter  her 
dear,  pretty,  simple,  shrewd  head.  She  has  her 
catch,  and  she  didn't  catch  him  with  guile.  She 
would  rather  keep  Judith  than  set  her  on  the  throne 
of  England.  That's  out  of  the  question." 

"Well,  I  do  see  that  point  about  bringing  her 
here.  He  can  see  her  naturally  here;  nothing  to 
thwart  him  ;  she's  such  a  girl,  no  older  than  Martha 
—  you  never  have  any  scares  about  Martha." 

"  Martha  has  never  been  thrown  so  with  anybody c 
I  wouldn't  allow  it.  I  try  to  be  always  on  the  safe 
side?" 


\  A  NEW  ANXIETY.  339 

"You  didn't  seem  to  be  on  Judith's  safe  side." 

"  I  couldn't.  Nobody  asked  me.  There  she  was 
studying  at  the  parsonage,  before  I  knew  it" 

"  She  was  only  a  child  then." 

"  And  I  thought  it  such  a  good  outlet  for  Marion 
—  it  was  one  of  the  first  things  that  roused  her  — 
that  and  her  Outing  Society.  My  only  fear  was 
that  she  was  taking  Judith  up  for  the  sake  of  her 
Cousin  Don.  His  influence  somehow  seems  to  run 
through  everything.  But  I  know  better  now. 
Judith  won  her  own  way.  But  I  didn't  know  I 
was  sacrificing  Eoger  to  Marion." 

"  How  could  you  have  hindered  ?  " 

"I  could  have  brought  Marion  home,"  she 
answered,  decidedly. 

"And  spoiled  the  good  Bensalem  was  doing  for 
her." 

"  Oh,  dear,"  with  a  sigh,  "  how  lives  are  tangled 
up." 

"  And  it's  rather  dangerous  for  our  fingers  to  get 
into  the  tangle,"  he  suggested,  with  mild  reproof. 

"But  we  must  do  something,"  she  exclaimed, 
in  despair. 

"  Well,  yes,  I  suppose  so  —  when  the  time  comes." 

"  Well,  the  time  has  come  now." 


340  GROWING  UP. 

"I  don't  see  anything  the  matter  with  Rogei 
He  can  walk  ten  miles  on  a  stretch,  he  rides  horse- 
hack,  he  cuts  his  own  kindling  wood  and  makes  his 
own  garden,  he  gives  his  people  two  strong  sermons 
a  week,  beside  the  prayer  meeting  and  weekly 
lectures ;  he  goes  hunting  with  one  of  his  deacons 
and  talks  farming  with  another ;  he  neglects  nobody, 
and  works  like  a  drum-major.  He  isn't  hurt" 

"  But  he  will  be.    Judith  will  refuse  him." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ? " 

"  Because  she  has  never  thought  of  such  a  thing." 

"  I  grant  that.  Why  should  she  ?  But  she  will 
think  of  it  when  he  suggests  it" 

"  She  will  not  think  of  it  as  he  does.  He  is  an  old 
fellow  to  her;  let  me  see;  she  was  thirteen  when 
she  went  to  Bensalem,  and  he  was  —  how  queer  for 
me  to  forget  —  he  was  twenty-six,  just  twice  her 
age." 

"He  isn't  twice  her  age  now,"  observed  Mr. 
Kenney,  comically. 

"And  a  woman  is  always  older  than  a  man,' 
Mrs.  Kenney,  reflected.  ''  She  is  nearer  his  age  than, 
I  think,  childish  as  she  is.  With  her  hair  up  she 
does  look  older;  it's  those  blue  eyes  like  a  baby, 


A  NEW  ATrxmrr.  341 

and  that  complexion.  I  told  Eoger  she  might  sit 
for  a  picture  of  Priscilla  the  Puritan  maiden,  in  her 
new-fashioned,  old-fashioned  dress,  and  he  said  he 
had  thought  of  it  himself.  But,  now,  Eoger,"  with 
a  deprecating  little  appeal,  "it  will  do  no  harm  to 
bring  her  here." 

"Not  the  least  bit  in  the  world,"  he  consented, 
cheerfully. 


342  GROWING  UP* 


XXIX. 

JUDITH'S  "  FUTUBE.* 

•*  God  never  loved  me  in  so  sweet  a  way  before : 
Tis  he  alone  who  can  such  blessings  send : 
And  when  his  love  would  new  expression  find, 
He  brought  thee  to  me,  and  he  said, '  Behold  —  a  friend.' " 

EXACTLY  a  month  from  the  day  Koger  planned  the 
Girl  Papers  for  her,  Judith  knocked  at  the  study 
door  with  her  manuscript  in  her  hand.  She  had 
written  three  papers;  if  he  took  sufficient  interest 
in  the  first  she  would  read  the  others. 

Beside  the  education  for  herself  she  had  another 
thought  in  writing  them ;  she  would  send  them  to 
some  child's  paper  and  earn  money.  She  knew  that 
Marion  had  never  depended  upon  the  parsonage  for 
money ;  every  month  her  father  sent  her  a  check ; 
she  had  no  father  to  send  her  a  check.  No  money 
had  come  to  her  from  her  Cousin  Don  since  his 
hurried  marriage.  Probably  he  considered  her  old 
enough  to  earn  money  for  herself.  It  would  be  hard 


JUDITH '  S  FUTURE.  343 

to  tell  Aunt  Affy  when  she  needed  a  dress,  or  shoes, 
or  money,  when  she  was  not  doing  anything  for 
Aunt  Affy's  comfort. 

Last  Sunday  she  had  no  money  for  Sunday-school 
or  church  ;  she  had  no  money  for  anything. 

Her  last  story  had  been  refused,  and  how  she  had 
cried  over  the  refusal.  It  was  even  hard  to  laugh 
when  Eoger  told  her  that  Queen  Victoria  had  sent 
an  article  to  a  paper  under  a  "  pen-name  "  and  it  had 
been  "returned  with  thanks."  She  wished  she  were 
a  dressmaker  like  Agnes  Trembly,  or  that  she  could 
go  into  a  farmer's  kitchen,  like  Jean  Draper's  sister 
Lottie,  and  earn  money  and  not  be  ashamed. 

"  Come  in,"  called  Eoger  from  among  his  books. 

Her  eyes  were  suspiciously  red,  she  was  relieved 
that  his  back  was  toward  her ;  he  wheeled  around 
in  his  chair  as  she  seated  herself,  and  looked  as 
though  he  had  nothing  in  the  world  to  do  but  listen 
to  her. 

"  Have  you  leisure  to  hear  my  Girl  Papers  ? "  she 
asked,  with  some  embarrassment.  "  They  are  horrid. 
I  tried  an  essay,  and  failed.  It  was  stilted  and 
stupid.  I  can  make  girls  talk,  so  I  threw  my 
garnered  information  into  a  conversation.  But  yon 
may  not  care  for  this  style." 


344  GROWING   UP. 

"  I  can  bear  anything,"  he  said,  making  a  comical 
effort  at  self-control. 

After  the  first  was  read,  with  an  inward  quaking, 
she  was  delighted  with  his  word  of  encouragement : 

"  Eead  the  others ;  I  cannot  know  how  bad  they 
are  until  you  read  them  all." 

More  hopefully  she  began  the  second  paper, 
which  she  read  in  a  clear,  conversational  tone :  — 

"  Do  you  know,"  began  grandmother,  "  who  said 
that  she  could  be  happy  anywhere  with  good  health 
and  a  bit  of  marble  ? " 

And  then  we  were  all  astir  with  eager  interest. 

"  Rosa  Bonheur  was  '  happy  anywhere '  with 
canvas,  colors,  and  brush ;  and  this  girl  loved  marble 
just  as  well,  and  brought  breathing  life  out  of  the 
cold  marble,  as  Eosa  brought  it  out  on  her  canvas. 
But  Harriet  was  an  American  child,  born  into  a 
luxurious  home,  with  no  brothers  or  sisters,  and 
her  mother  soon  died  and  left  her  alone  with  her 
father.  Her  mother  died  with  consumption,  and 
her  father  had  buried  his  other  child  besides  Harriet 
with  the  same  disease,  so  no  wonder  he  was  afraid 
for  his  little  girl,  and  determined  to  give  her  a 
playful  childhood  in  air  and  sunshine.  Harriet 


JUDITH'S  FUTURE.  345 

Hosmer  was  born  in  Watertown,  Mass.,  October  9th, 
1830." 

"  And  now  she's  older  than  you  are,  grandmother," 
said  Bess.  "I  like  to  know  about  when  grand 
mothers  were  little  girls." 

"But  she  and  Eosa  Bonheur  are  not  grandmothers. 
They  have  had  canvas  and  marble  instead  of  a  home 
with  children  and  grandchildren  in  it.  As  soon  as 
little  Harriet  was  old  enough  a  pet  dog  was  given  to 
her,  and  she  ornamented  it  with  ribbons  and  bells. 
Instead  of  tin  cup  and  iron  spoon,  which  Eosa  had, 
she  revelled  in  all  the  pretty  things  that  children 
love.  The  Eiver  Charles  ran  past  her  home;  her 
father  gave  her  a  boat  and  told  her  to  take  her  air 
and  sunshine  on  the  water  and  learn  to  develop  her 
muscles  by  the  oars.  And  then  he  had  built  for 
her  a  Venetian  gondola  with  velvet  cushions  and 
silver  prow. 

" '  She  will  be  spoiled,'  the  neighbors  foreboded, 
but  her  wise  father  was  not  afraid ;  he  knew  how 
much  happiness  his  child  could  bear  and  not  be 
rendered  selfish.  The  next  thing  to  help  her  become 
strong  was  a  gun ;  she  soon  became  what  your 
brothers  would  call  a  good  shot.  By  and  by  you 


34ft  GROWING  UP. 

will  know  how  strong  her  hands  and  arms  became 
and  what  she  could  do  with  them.  All  this  time, 
just  as  you  are,  girls,  these  common  days,  she  was 
being  made  ready  for  her  own  special  work." 

Juliet  grew  radiant.  She  was  hoping  for  "  special 
work." 

"Her  room  was  a  museum.  Gathered  and  pre 
pared  by  her  own  eager  and  wise  hands  she  had 
beetles,  snakes,  bats,  birds,  stuffed  or  preserved  in 
spirits.  From  the  egg  of  a  sea  gull  and  the  body 
of  a  kingfisher  she  made  an  ink-stand  ;  she  climbed 
to  the  top  of  a  tree  for  a  crow's  nest.  Miles  and 
miles  she  learned  to  walk  without  being  wearied. 
In  her  work  and  habits  and  strength  she  was  like  a 
boy.  She  was  fond  of  book,  but  just  as  fond  of  the 
clay-pit  in  her  garden  where,  to  her  father's  delight 
as  well  as  her  own,  she  molded  dogs  and  horses. 

"When  Harriet  Hosmer  was  taken  to  a  famous 
school  (at  home  they  called  her  '  happy  Hatty ')  the 
the  teacher  said :  '  I  have  a  reputation  for  training 
wild  colts;  I  will  try  this  one.'  She  stayed  three 
years.  On  her  return  home  she  began  to  take 
lessons  in  drawing,  modeling,  and  in  anatomical 
studies,  often  walking  fourteen  miles  to  Boston  and 


JUDITH'S  FUTURE.  347 

back,  with  hours  of  work  and  study.  Was  not  that 
a  day's  work  ?  She  went  to  the  Medical  College 
of  St.  Louis  to  take  a  thorough  course  in  anatomy." 

"  You  have  to  know  things  to  get  things  out  of 
marble,"  remarked  Ethel. 

"  Grandmother,  how  hard  girls  can  work  ! "  ex 
claimed  Nan,  who  did  not  love  work. 

"  After  she  had  finished  her  studies  she  traveled 
alone  to  New  Orleans,  and  then  north  to  the  Falls 
of  St.  Anthony,  smoking  the  pipe  of  peace  with  the 
chief  of  the  Dakota  Indians,  explored  lead  mines 
in  Dubuque,  and  scaled  a  high  mountain  to  which 
her  name  was  afterward  given." 

"That  was  fun,"  said  Nan.  "I'm  glad  she  had 
some  fun  with  her  hard  work." 

"  After  work  in  her  studio  at  home  her  father 
sent  her  to  Eome.  Girl  as  she  was,  in  her  studio  at 
home  she  wielded  for  eight  or  ten  hours  a  day  a 
leaden  mallet  weighing  four  pounds  and  a  half. 
And  it  was  then  she  told  a  friend  that  she  would 
not  be  homesick,  for  she  could  be  happy  anywhere 
with  good  health  and  a  bit  of  marble.  For  seven 
years  she  worked  on  her  '  bit  of  marble '  in  Rome. 
She  made  beautiful  and  wonderful  things  with  her 


348  GROWING   UP. 

good  health  and  her  marble,  with  hard  work,  and 
the  insight  into  beauty  that  God,  who  makes  all 
beautiful  things,  gave  to  this  ready  and  obedient 
child. 

"The  first  work  she  copied  for  her  teacher  was 
the  Venus  of  Milo;  when  almost  completed  the 
iron,  which  held  the  clay  firm,  snapped,  and  all  her 
work  was  spoiled." 

"  Oh  ! "  sighed  Ethel. 

"  But  she  did  not  shriek  nor  cry  herself  to  sleep 
(that  anybody  knew),  but  bravely  went  to  work 
again.  Her  works  were  exhibited  in  Boston  and 
much  admired.  Her  teacher  said  he  had  never  seen 
surpassed  her  genius  of  imitating  the  roundness 
and  softness  of  flesh.  Look  at  other  marble  statues 
and  see  if  the  flesh  looks  soft  and  round  like 
Harriet's.  One  of  her  works,  a  girl  lying  asleep, 
was  exhibited  in  London  and  in  several  American 
cities.  She  said  once  she  would  work  as  though 
she  had  to  earn  her  daily  bread,  and,  strange  to  tell, 
very  soon  after  that  her  father  wrote  that  he  had 
lost  his  property  and  could  send  her  no  more  money. 
And  then  she  hired  a  cheap  room,  sold  her  hand 
some  saddle-horse,  and  went  to  work  in  reality  to 


JUDITH'S  FUTURE.  349 

earn  her  daily  bread.  Her  first  work,  in  her  time  of 
sorrow,  was  a  fun-loving,  four-year-old  child.  With 
the  several  copies  she  made  from  it  she  earned  for 
her  daily  bread  thirty  thousand  dollars." 

"  And  oh !  grandmother,"  I  said  (for  I  am  a  poor 
girl  myself),  "  when  our  heavenly  Father  has  work 
for  us  to  do,  it  doesn't  matter  whether  we  are  born 
poor  or  rich." 

"Either  way  it  takes  hard  work,"  said  grand 
mother. 

With  a  shy  glance  into  his  satisfied  face  she 
opened  her  third  paper :  — 

"Children  have  more  need  of  models  than  of 
critics,"  said  grandmother,  "therefore  I  will  give 
you  another  model  to-night.  You  will  think  I  am 
always  choosing  for  you  stories  of  girls  that  work ; 
but  where  can  I  find  models  of  any  other  kind? 
What  do  girls  amount  to  who  think  only  of  their 
own  pleasure,  and  never  persevere  to  the  successful 
end  ?  Now  I  will  tell  you  about  a  girl  who  came  in 
womanhood  to  live  in  an  observatory.  This  is  her 
home.  She  is  a  dear  old  lady  with  white  hair, 
dressed  in  gray  or  brown,  in  rather  Quakerish 
fashion.  She  said  to  the  girls  she  teaches :  '  All  the 


350  GROWING  UP. 

clothing  I  have  on  cost  but  seventeen  dollars.'  In 
this  unusual  home  (she  is  not  a  grandmother,  either), 
she  keeps  the  things  she  loves  best,  —  her  books,  her 
pictures,  her  astronomical  clock,  and  a  bust  of  Mary 
Somerville,  of  whom  I  will  tell  you  some  time." 

"  And  then  we  will  remember  that  her  bust  is  in 
somebody's  observatory  home,"  said  Bess. 

"  It  is  not  a  wonder  that  Maria  Mitchell  has  great 
respect  for  girls  who  do  something,  and  for  idle  girls 
none  at  all.  As  Juliet  was  at  Nantucket  last  sum 
mer  she  will  be  interested  to  know  that  Maria 
Mitchell  was  born  in  that  quiet,  delightful  place. 
She  was  in  a  home  of  ten  children.  Her  mother 
was  a  Quaker  girl,  a  descendant  of  Benjamin  Frank 
lin.  Her  father  was  a  school  teacher.  Little  Maria 
went  to  school  to  her  father.  At  school  she  studied, 
and  with  ten  little  people  at  home,  what  do  you 
think  she  did  ?  She  herself  calls  her  work, '  endless 
washing  of  dishes.'  The  dishwashing  never  hin 
dered.  I  think  it  helped.  I  believe  in  dishwashing. 
I  wonder  what  this  little  girl  would  have  thought 
of  the  dishwasher  that  some  people  have  in  their 
kitchens,  and  is  warranted  to  wash  sixty-five  dishes 
(in  the  smaller  affair)  at  once,  in  the  soap-sudsy., 


JUDITH'S  FUTURE.  351 

steamy,  crank-turning  space  of  three  blessed  min 
utes.  And  all  dried,  too.  But  in  her  observatory 
she  had  no  need  to  think  of  dishwashing.  Like 
Rosa  Bonheur,  and  Harriet  Hosmer,  she  had  a  good 
father  and  a  wise  father.  When  he  was  eight  years 
old  his  father  called  him  to  the  door  to  look  at  the 
planet  Saturn,  and  from  that  time  the  boy  calculated 
his  age  from  the  position  of  the  planet,  year  by 
year." 

"  Then  it  began  with  her  grandfather,"  said  Juliet, 
who  liked  to  find  the  beginnings  of  things. 

"  Her  father  had  a  little  observatory  of  his  own, 
on  his  own  land,  that  he  might  study  the  stars.  So 
it  is  no  marvel  that  his  daughter  is  ending  her  use 
ful  days  in  a  big  observatory.  When  Maria  went  to 
her  observatory,  her  father  was  seventy  years  of 
age ;  he  needed  her  as  nurse  and  companion,  but  he 
said, '  Go,  and  I  will  go  with  you.'" 

"This  is  the  loveliest  story  of  all,"  exclaimed 
Grace,  who  loves  her  own  old  father  dearly. 

"  For  four  years  her  father  lived  to  be  proud  01 
her,  and  enjoyed  her  work  and  her  pupils  at  Vassar 
College.  When  Maria  was  a  girl  her  father  could 
see  no  reason  why  she  should  not  become  as  well 


352  GROWING  UP. 

educated  as  his  boys,  so  he  gave  her,  as  to  them,  a 
special  drill  in  navigation." 

"  Grandmother,"  asked  Ethel,  "  did  you  know  all 
these  little  girls  when  they  were  little  ? " 

"No,  darling,"  said  grandmother,  "I  found  out 
about  them  in  books.  And  telling  you  about  the 
girls  is  getting  you  ready  to  read  about  them  all  the 
little  things  the  world  has  a  right  to  know.  For 
they  belong  to  the  whole  world.  Maria  did  not 
learn  fancy  work.  I  can  guess  what  she  would  say 
of  some  girls  who  care  more  for  fancy  stitches  than 
for  studies.  She  has  said,  'A  woman  might  be 
learning  seven  languages  while  she  is  learning  fancy 
work.'  Still,  girls,  educate  your  fingers,  and  make 
your  homes  pretty  and  attractive.  But  don't  let 
stitches  hinder  the  stars  —  God  has  his  place  for 
both." 

"Yes,  the  women  worked  pretty  things  for  the 
Tabernacle,"  I  said.  (For  I  love  to  make  pretty 
things.) 

"But  she  did  know  how  to  knit,  and  she  knit 
stockings  a  yard  long  for  her  father  as  long  as  he 
lived.  She  studied  while  she  knit,  as  I  used  to  do 
when  I  was  a  little  girl  When  she  was  a  little 


JUDITH'S  FUTURE.  353 

girl  how  she  did  read  !  Before  she  was  ten  years  old 
she  read  through  Eollin's  Ancient  History. 

"  One  night  in  October,  1847,  she  was  gazing 
through  her  telescope,  and  what  do  you  think  she 
saw  ?  An  unknown  comet.  She  was  afraid  it  was 
an  old  story.  Frederick  VI.,  King  of  Denmark, 
sixteen  years  before,  had  offered  a  gold  medal  to  the 
person  who  should  discover  a  telescopic  comet.  And 
the  little  Nantucket  girl,  who  had  knitted  stockings 
a  yard  long,  and  washed  endless  dishes,  discovered 
the  telescopic  comet,  and  to  her  was  awarded  the 
gold  medal.  And  now  the  scientific  journals  an 
nounced  Miss  Mitchell's  comet.  In  England  she 
was  eagerly  welcomed  by  Sir  John  and  Lady 
Herschel,  and  Alexander  Von  Humboldt  took  her 
beside  him  on  a  sofa  and  talked  to  her  about  every 
body  he  knew  and  everything  he  knew.  And,  oh ! 
the  other  great  people  who  were  glad  to  see  her. 
She  saw  in  Rome  Frederika  Bremer,  of  whose 
comical,  interesting,  sad  girlhood  I  must  tell  you 
some  day.  But  I  musn't  forget  the  little  house 
Maria  bought  for  her  father  before  she  went  to  the 
observatory  of  Vassar  College.  It  cost  sixteen 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  and  she  saved  the  money 


354  GROWING    UP. 

out  of  her  yearly  salary  of  one  hundred  dollars,  and 
what  she  could  earn  in  government  work. 

"I  don't  think  I  mind  washing  dishes  so  much 
now,"  declared  Nan. 

And  we  all  laughed. 

"Good,**  exclaimed  Judith's  listener.  "Keep  on 
with  the  dozen,  and  salt  them  down.  When  I  Was 
a  Boy  series  will  be  a  good  thing  for  you.  Judith, 
honest,  now,  would  you  rather  go  away  to  school 
this  winter,  or  read  and  write  with  Marion  and  me  ? " 

"  Study  with  you,"  was  the  quick  decision ;  "  I  can 
think  of  nothing  in  the  world  I  would  like  so  well." 

"Then  that  is  settled,"  he  replied  with  satisfac 
tion  ;  "  I  feared  you  would  he  restless.  You  are  at 
the  frisky  and  restless  age.  Marion  was  sure  you 
would  not  be." 

"  But  —  "  Judith  hesitated  and  colored  painfully, 
"  if  I  am  to  teach  by  and  by,  would  it  be  better  for 
me  to  go  to  school  ?  I  can  borrow  the  money  and 
then  earn  it  by  teaching  and  repay  Aunt  Affy." 

"  We  are  not  making  a  teacher  of  you ;  we  are 
making  an  educated  woman  —  " 

"  But,  Roger,"  she  persisted,  "  unless  I  go  back  to 
Aunt  Affy  I  must  support  myself.  I  am  not  willing 
to  be  dependent  upon  any  one  except  Aunt  Affy." 


JUDITH'S  FUTURE.  355 

*  Upon  whom  are  you  dependent  now  ?  Are  you 
not  earning  your  board  by  being  co-operative  house 
keeper  ? " 

"  If  you  and  Marion  think  so." 

"  Ask  Marion." 

"  But  I  would  like  to  ask  you,  too  ? " 

"  I  thought  my  little  sister  had  more  delicacy  of 
feeling  than  feo  ask  such  a  question." 

"  Eoger,  don't  be  a  goose,"  she  said,  indignantly, 
"  that  was  all  very  well  when  I  was  a  child.  You 
forget  that  I  am  grown  up." 

"  You  will  not  let  me  forget  it." 

"  I  wish  you  not  to  forget  it.  In  the  spring,  on 
my  nineteenth  birthday,  I  shall  decide  upon  my 
future.  Just  think,  I  have  a  future,"  she  laughed. 
"  I  am  only  too  glad  of  the  study  and  music  this  win 
ter.  Then  I  shall  go  out  into  the  world,  or  go  back 
to  Aunt  Affy.  I  do  not  mean  to  be  too  proud  — " 
with  a  quiver  of  the  lip. 

"  Only  just  proud  enough.  You  are  exactly  that. 
Let  us  live  in  peace  this  winter,  and  then  your  nine 
teenth  birthday  may  do  its  worst  for  us  all." 

"You  will  not  be  serious,"  she  answered,  with 
vexed  tears  ;  "  my  life  is  a  great  deal  to  me." 


356  GROWING   UP. 

w  It  is  a  great  deal  to  us  all,  dear.  Work  and  be 
patient,  and  you  will  have  as  happy  an  ending  as 
any  story  you  write." 

"  My  children  end  as  children,"  she  said,  with  a 
quick  laugh.  "I  shouldn't  know  what  to  do  with 
them  if  they  grew  up." 

"  There  is  One  who  does  know  what  to  do  with 
his  children  when  they  grow  up,"  said  Roger,  bend 
ing  as  he  stood  beside  her  and  touching  her  lips  with 
his  own.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  kissed 
her.  She  took  the  kiss  as  gravely  and  simply  as  it 
was  given.  Something  was  sealed  between  them- 
She  would  never  be  proud  with  him  again. 

"  I  will  not  kiss  you  again,"  said  Eoger  to  himself, 
"  until  you  promise  to  be  my  wife." 

That  afternoon  Roger  asked  Marion  to  drive  to 
Meadow  Centre. 

"I  am  glad  you  did  not  ask  Judith,"  replied 
Marion,  with  something  in  her  voice, 

"Why  not?"  he  asked,  indignantly,  "why 
shouldn't  I  ask  Judith  to  drive  with  me  ? " 

"  My  point  was  not  driving  with  you,  but  driving 
io  Meadow  Centre." 

"  I  confess  I  do  not  understand  you." 


JUDITH'S  FUTURE.  357 

"  I  knew  you  didn't.     Men  are  blind  creatures." 

"  Then  open  the  eyes  of  one  blind  creature." 

"  Haven't  you  seen  that  Mr.  King  is  interested  in 
Judith  ? "  she  asked,  somewhat  impatiently. 

"  We  are  all  interested  in  Judith." 

"Not  just  as  he  is.  You  are  not,"  looking 
straight  into  his  frank,  smiling  eyes. 

"  You  don't  mean  —  " 

"  Yes,  I  do  mean  —  " 

"  What  about  her  ? "  he  asked  with  the  color  hot 
in  his  face.  But  Marion  was  a  "blind  creature" 
then  and  did  not  see. 

"I  don't  know  about  her.  She  isn't  grown  up 
enough  to  think.  But  I  know  he  is  wonderfully 
attractive  to  her." 

"  He's  a  good  fellow.    I  will  not  stand  in  his  way." 

"  For  pity's  sake,  Eoger,  don't  think  you  must  do 
anything,"  cried  Marion,  dismayed ;  "  let  her  alone. 
He  will  take  care  of  himself." 

"  I  shall  certainly  let  her  alone.  He  is  so  artless 
that  he  will  be  taken  care  of.  It  is  like  him  to 
stumble  into  the  best  thing  in  the  universe  and  then 
wonder  how  he  ever  got  it." 

"  I  hope  you  don't  call  Meadow  Centre  one  of  the 
best  things,"  retorted  Marion. 


358  GROWING   UP. 

"  It's  a  good  place  for  a  man  to  make  something 
of  himself ;  he  is  writing  sermons  that  will  make  a 
stir  somewhere.  Meadow  Centre  is  to  him  what 
Paul's  three  years  in  Arabia  were  to  him." 

"Then  we  must  do  our  best  to  make  Judith 
ready  —  " 

"  What  a  plotter  you  are,"  he  exclaimed,  angrily , 
then,  more  quietly:  "But  we  will  make  Judith 
ready,"  and  he  walked  off  with  a  laugh  that  was  a 
mixture  of  things. 

This  day,  in  which  God's  daily  bread  and  his  daily 
will  were  given  to  Judith  as  upon  all  the  other  days, 
was  one  of  the  very  happiest  days  of  her  happy  life. 

Roger's  kiss  gave  her  an  undefined  sense  of  safety 
and  protection;  if  she  were  not  wise  enough  to 
decide  when  the  time  came  she  would  take  refuge 
in  that  safety  and  protection,  and  —  another  kiss. 

That  evening  Joe  came  for  her,  saying  Aunt  Rody 
was  worse.  She  went  home  with  him,  and 
"  watched  "  with  Aunt  Affy,  until  poor  Aunt  Rody 
passed  away  from  the  home  she  had  toiled  so  un 
ceasingly  for  and  taken  so  little  comfort  in.  One 
week  she  stayed  with  Aunt  Affy :  "  I  miss  her  so," 
wept  Aunt  Affy  broken-heartedly ;  "  I  never  was  in 
the  world  without  her  before." 


JUDITH'1 S  FUTURE.  359 

"I  suppose  we  musn't  keep  you,  Judith,"  Uncle 
Cephas  remarked  one  evening  behind  his  newspaper. 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Judith.  "  I  want  to  be  as  busy  as 
a  bee  this  winter  to  get  ready  for  something." 

"  Then  we  will  have  to  adopt  Joe ;  we  must  have 
some  young  thing  about  the  house." 

Judith's  first  words  to  Koger  and  Marion  as  they 
went  out  to  welcome  her  on  the  piazza  were  in  a 
burst :  "  I  do  think  those  two  old  people  growing  old 
together  is  the  loveliest  thing  I  ever  saw." 

"  How  young  must  two  people  begin  to  grow  old 
together  ? "  inquired  Roger,  comically. 

"  As  soon  as  they  think  about  growing  old,"  said 
Marion. 

"  Then  I  will  not  begin  to  think  until  my  birth" 
day,"  said  Judith.  "Marion,  I  am  too  happy  in 
having  two  homes.  Some  better  girl  than  I  should 
have  them." 

"  You  forget  your  third  home  in  England,"  re 
marked  Roger,  seriously. 

"Oh,  poor  Don.  Roger,  I  am  afraid  Don  isn't 
happy,"  she  said,  with  slow  emphasis. 

What  Roger  thought  he  did  not  say. 

Don's  letters  were  brief,  constrained;  Judith's 
letter  to  her  "  new,  dear  Cousin  Florence  "  had  met 
with  nc  re.aponse— -  that  Judith  knew. 


360  GROWING  UP. 


XXX. 

A  TALK   AND  WHAT  CAME   OF  IT. 

"  There  is  nothing  which  faith  does  not  overcome;  nothing 
which  it  will  not  accept." 

BlSHOP   IltlNTINGTON. 

"  KOGER,"  began  Judith,  doubtfully. 

"  Begin  again,  I  don't  like  that  tone." 

"I  was  afraid  you  were  thinking — " 

"  I  should  be  sorry  not  to  be." 

"  I  was  afraid  you  were  thinking  too  deeply  to  be 
disturbed." 

"  Then  I  shouldn't  be  disturbed ;  my  mind  would 
be  absent  from  my  ear  and  I  should  not  hear  that 
doubtful  appeal  The  doubt  is  what  I  object  to." 

Marion  and  her  mother  had  not  returned  from 
their  drive  to  Meadow  Centre,  where  Mrs.  Kenney 
had  a  school  friend.  They  intended  to  "  spend  an 
old-fashioned  day,"  Mrs.  Kenney  remarked  at  the 
breakfast  table ;  it  was  five  o'clock  in  the  November 
afternoon  and  the  old-fashioned  day  was  not  yet 
ended. 


A  TALK.  361 

Judith  and  her  fancy  work,  covers  for  Nettie's 
bureau,  had  taken  possession  of  the  light  in  the  bay 
window ;  as  the  light  faded,  she  sat  thinking  with 
her  work  in  her  lap.  Roger  entered  and  threw 
himself  upon  the  lounge,  clasping  his  hands  above 
his  head;  his  thinking  was  weaving  itself  in  and 
out  of  a  suggestion  of  his  mother's  that  she  should 
take  Judith  home  for  the  winter. 

To  the  suggestion  he  had  replied  nothing  at  all 

"Then  the  doubt  is  gone,"  answered  Judith, 
brightly.  "  I  do  not  know  how  to  put  my  thought." 

"  Isn't  that  rather  a  new  experience  ? " 

"  It  is  the  experience  of  every  day,"  she  answered, 
unmindful  of  his  teazing.  "  I  wonder  why  God  keeps 
us  so  much  in  the  dark." 

"  Perhaps  we  keep  ourselves  in  the  dark." 

"  That  is  what  I  wanted  to  know." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  exactly  what  you  mean  ?  Are 
you  in  the  dark  about  anything  ? " 

"About  everything,"  she  exclaimed  with  such 
energy  that  his  only  reply  was  a  laugh. 

"  Just  now  I  mean  one  special  thing  that  I  cannot 
tell  you  about." 

"  0,  Judith,  are  you  growing  up  to  have  secrets  ?  * 
he  groaned. 


S62  GROWING  UP. 

"  I  am  growing  up  with  secrets.  Aunt  Rody  used 
to  exasperate  me  by  telling  me  I  would  '  outgrow 
something,  when  all  the  time  I  knew  I  was  growing 
into  something." 

"Growing  into  a  new  thing  is  the  best  way  to 
outgrow  an  old  thing." 

"  Then  I  am  satisfied  about  something." 

Rc^er  wished  that  he  could  be  —  about  something. 

"I  wish  I  could  tell  you.  But  I  don't  know  why 
I  shouldn't.  I'm  afraid  Marion  doesn't  care  for  Mr. 
King,  and  I  want  her  to  so  much." 

In  the  twilight  she  could  not  see  the  illumination 
in  the  face  across  the  room  on  the  lounge. 

He  was  satisfied  about  something. 

"  What  are  you  getting  down  into  ? "  he  asked 
jubilantly. 

"Why,"  pricking  her  work  with  her  needle,  "I 
think  he  —  cares  a  great  deal,  and  he  is  so  splendid 
that  I  want  her  to  care.  How  they  would  work  to 
gether.  Bensalem  has  been  getting  her  ready." 

"Well,  I  declare!"  he  exclaimed,  rising  to  his 
feet 

"  Are  you  displeased  ?  " 

"  There's  nothing  to  be  displeased  about     Is  this 


A  TALK.  363 

the  way  girls  plot  against  each  other  ?  No  wonder 
we  men  have  to  tread  softly." 

"  It  isn't  plotting  exactly.     It's  only  hoping." 

"  Is  that  your  secret  ? " 

"  Yes,  and  don't  you  tell,"  she  said,  alarmed. 

"  No ;  it  shall  be  my  secret ;  yours  and  mine. 
Now  what  are  we  going  to  do  about  it  ? " 

"We  cannot  do  anything.  She  admires  him 
around  the  edges,  somehow.  And  he's  as  shy  of 
her  as  he  can  be.  I  seem  to  be  always  interpreting 
them  to  each  other." 

He  laughed,  greatly  amused. 

"  In  spite  of  my  selecting  the  most  innocent  love- 
stories  for  you,  you  have  grown  up  to  the  depth,  or 
height,  of  this.  I'll  never  dare  put  a  finger  in  a 
girl's  education  again." 

"But,  Roger  — " 

"  Don't  ask  me  to  help  you  out." 

"Marion  will  not.  She  doesn't  seem  to  under 
stand  anything." 

:'No  wonder,"  thought  Roger,  remembering  her 
early  experience ;  "she  has  been  a  burnt  child;  she'll 
:i3ver  play  with  that  kind  of  fire  again." 

Aloud  he  replied :  "  She  needs  a  wise  head  like 
yours.  What  would  you  advise  her  to  do  ?" 


364  GROWING  UP. 

"  To  be  natural ;  just  her  own  self,  and  she  isn't 
I  believe  she's  afraid." 

"  So  will  you  be  when  you  are  as  old  as  she  is." 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  be  afraid  of." 

"May  you  never  know.  Is  that  all  you  are  in 
the  dark  about  ?  "  he  questioned,  seating  himself  in 
his  study  chair,  and  wheeling  around  to  face  the  girl 
in  the  bay  window. 

A  girl  in  blue,  as  she  was  when  she  sat  in  the  bay 
window  in  Summer  Avenue  and  wrote  letters  to 
Aunt  Affy;  the  same  trustful  eyes,  loving  mouth, 
and  yellow  head. 

Now,  as  then,  she  did  not  know  what  to  be  afraid 
of.  It  was  only  this  last  month  that  she  had 
brought  her  questions  to  Koger.  Marion  had  not 
grown  ahead  of  her  to  answer  her.  And  Aunt  Affy 
had  been  so  absorbed  in  Aunt  Eody  this  last  year 
that  she  had  feared  to  trouble  her  with  questions. 

**  I  have  a  book-full  of  questions  laid  up  for  you ; 
rather  the  answers  would  be  a  book-full  Life 
seems  full  of  questions.  There's  always  something 
to  ask  about  everything  I  read." 

"  Ask  the  next  book." 

**  The  next  book  doesn't  always  know. " 


A  TALK.  365 

"  The  next  person  may  not  always  know." 

"  I  can  easily  find  out,"  she  laughed. 

Then  she  became  grave,  and,  after  a  moment's  si 
lence,  said :  "  I  wish  I  knew  why  we  couldn't  have 
an  idea,  as  we  pray  a  long  time  for  something, 
whether  it  were  going  to  be  given  us  or  not." 

"Something  that  you  have  no  special  promise  for?" 

"Yes;  something  in  the  ' what-so-ever.'  It  does 
seem  so  hard  to  have  it  grow  darker  and  harder,  and 
not  to  know  whether  you  may  keep  on  or  not; 
whether  giving  up  would  be  in  faith  —  or  despair." 

"  Judith,  you've  touched  a  sensitive  point  in  many 
a  heart  that  keeps  on  praying." 

"  Do  you  know  ? "  she  asked. 

"  I  can  tell  you  a  story." 

His  story  was  all  she  desired. 

"You  know  when  Jairus  came  to  the  Lord  to 
plead  for  his  daughter,  he  fell  at  his  feet  and  be 
sought  him  greatly,  saying :  '  My  little  daughter  lieth 
at  the  point  of  death.'  Then  Jesus  went  with  him. 
We  do  not  know  what  he  said,  but  he  went  with 
him.  Then,  as  they  went  together,  the  crowd  came 
to  a  stand-still  that  the  Lord  might  perform  a  mira 
cle  and  answer  the  prayer  of  a  touch.  But,  by  this 


366  GROWING   UP. 

time,  Jesus  had  been  so  long  on  the  way  that  news 
came  of  the  death  of  the  little  daughter.  It  was  too 
late.  She  was  dead.  They  said  to  the  father :  '  Why 
troublest  thou  the  Master  any  further  ? '  He  might 
as  well  go  home  to  his  dead  child,  the  Master  had 
not  cared  to  hasten  —  this  woman  was  not  at  the 
point  of  death,  she  might  have  been  healed  another 
day.  But  think  of  the  comfort:  as  soon  as  Jesus 
heard  the  message,  he  said  to  the  father :  '  Be  not 
afraid;  only  believe.'  Is  he  not  saying  that  every 
hour  to  us  who  are  fainting  because  he  is  so  long  on 
the  way?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Judith,  "  but  he  did  not  say  he  would 
raise  her  from  the  dead.  Perhaps  the  ruler  did  not 
know  he  had  power  to  raise  from  the  dead." 

"  No ;  he  only  said :  Be  not  afraid :  only  believe. 
Is  not  that  assurance  enough  for  you  ? " 

"Now,  don't  think  I  am  dreadfully  wicked,  but  I 
know  I  am ;  I  want  him  to  say :  '  Be  not  afraid,  I 
know  she  is  dead,  but  I  have  power  enough  for  that ; 
believe  I  can  do  that.  He  did  not  tell  him  what  to 
believe." 

"  He  told  him  to  believe  in  the  sympathy  and 
power  that  had  just  healed  this  woman  who  had 


A  TALK.  367 

been   incurable    twelve   years,   all    the    years    his 

daughter  had  been  living." 

"  But,"  persisted  Judith,  "  he  might  believe  that, 
for  he  had  just  seen  it ;  but  to  raise  from  the  dead 
was  beyond  everything  he  had  seen,  and  Christ  gave 
him  no  promise  for  that." 

"  Perhaps  he  believed  that  the  Master  had  power 
in  reserve  —  he  surely  knew  he  was  going  to  his 
house  for  something — he  did  not  bid  him  believe, 
and  then  turn  back ;  he  went  on  with  him  to  his 
house." 

"  Now  you  have  said  what  I  wanted.  It  was  the 
going  on  with  him  that  kept  up  his  faith.  As  long 
as  Jesus  kept  on  going  his  way  he  couldn't  but 
believe.  He  gave  him  something  even  better  than 
his  word  to  believe  in.  I  shouldn't  think  he  would 
be  afraid  of  anything  then." 

"  Then  don't  you  be  afraid  of  anything.  Not  un 
til  the  Master  turns  and  goes  the  other  way." 

"  He  will  never  do  that,"  Judith  said  to  herself. 

The  clock  on  the  mantel  struck  the  half  hour: 
half-past  five.  Judith  rolled  up  her  work  and  went 
out  to  the  kitchen.  The  tea  kettle  was  singing  on 
the  range;  everything  was  ready  for  the  supper, 


368  GROWING  FP. 

biscuits  aud  cake  of  her  own  making,  jelly  and  fruit 
that  she  and  Marion  had  put  up  together  in  the 
long  summer  days,  to  which  she  would  add  an 
omelet  and  creamed  potatoes,  for  Roger  was  always 
hungry  after  a  walk,  and  then  coffee,  for  Mrs.  Kenney 
would  like  coffee  after  her  drive. 

"  I  don't  mind  now  if  my  prayers  do  get  stopped 
in  the  middle,"  she  thought  as  she  arranged  the 
pretty  cups  and  saucers  on  the  supper  table,  "if 
Jesus  goes  all  the  way  with  me  —  he  will  take  care 
of  the  rest  of  it,  and  next  year  —  if  something  dies 
this  year,  he  can  bring  it  to  life  next  year.  If  He 
wants  to ;  and  I  don't  want  Him  to,  if  He  doesn't 
want  to." 

Roger  came  out  into  the  kitchen  to  watch  her  as 
she  moved  about,  and,  to  his  own  surprise,  found 
himself  asking  her  the  question  he  had  intended  not 
to  ask  at  all. 

"  Would  you  like  to  go  back  home  with  mother 
for  the  winter  ?  You  may  have  a  music  teacher, 
you  have  had  none  but  Marion,  and  take  lessons  in 
anything  and  everything.  Mother  would  like  it 
very  much,"  he  said,  noting  the  gladness  and  grati 
tude  in  her  face;  "  Martha  will  take  your  place  here 
with  Marion." 


A  TALK.  369 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  would  like  it,"  she  answered,  doubt 
fully.  "  Did  she  propose  it  ?  * 

"Yes." 

"You  are  sure  you  didn't  suggest  it,  even,"  she 
questioned,  still  doubtfully. 

"  I  am  not  unselfish  enough  for  that,"  he  answered, 
dryly. 

"But  who  would  pay  for  it?"  she  questioned, 
with  a  flush  of  shame.  "  No ;  I  will  not  go  —  until 
I  earn  money  myself." 

"  A  letter  came  last  night  from  your  Cousin  Don 
—  I  really  believe  I  forgot  to  tell  you  —  perhaps  I 
was  jealous  of  his  right  to  spend  money  for  you. 
He  asked  me  to  decide  what  would  be  best  for  you, 
from  my  knowledge  of  yourself,  and  said  any  amount 
would  be  forthcoming  that  your  plans  needed.  His 
heart  is  in  his  native  land  still.  He  will  never 
come  home  to  stay  as  long  as  his  wife  "-  -"lives  "  in 
his  thought  was  instantly  changed  to  "objects" 
upon  his  lips. 

"  So  you  would  really  like  to  go  back  to  city  life?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Judith  with  slow  decision. 

Why  should  she  not  go  home  with  John  Kenney's 
mother,  she  argued,  as  she  stood  silent  before  Roger, 


370  GROWING   UP. 

He  was  studying  medicine  in  New  York ;  he  had 
written  her  once,  only  once,  and  then  to  tell  her 
that  he  had  decided  upon  the  medical  course :  "  If  I 
cannot  have  something  else  I  want  I  will  have  this. 
Life  has  got  to  have  something  for  me." 

A  week  later  Lottie  Kindare  had  written  one  of 
her  infrequent  letters ;  the  burden  of  the  letter 
seemed  to  be  a  twenty-mile  drive  with  John  Kenney 
and  an  engagement  to  go  to  see  pictures  with  him. 

"I  have  always  liked  John,  you  know  —  John 
with  the  crimson  name."  She  was  glad  of  both 
letters;  they  both  revealed  something  she  had  no 
other  way  of  learning.  She  had  not  hurt  John 
beyond  recovery,  and  Lottie  would  have  something 
she  wished  for  most 

"  Don  will  be  glad  to  take  the  responsibility  of 
you.  You  give  him  another  reason  for  staying 
alive." 

"(Hasn't  he  reasons  enough  —  without  me  ?  " 

"He  ought  to  have,"  was  the  serious  reply. 
"  Everybody  should  have,  excepting  yourself." 

"  Myself  appears  to  be  the  chief  reason  to  me." 

"  Take  as  much  time  as  you  like  to  decide  —  and 
remember,  you  go  of  your  own  free  will." 


A   TALK.  371 

"  Roger,  you  know  it  isn't  that  I  choose  to  go  —  " 
she  began,  earnestly. 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  said,  as  he  turned  away,  "  not  Caesar 
less,  but  Rome  mere." 

He  went  into  the  study  and  shut  the  door. 

"  The  child,  the  child,"  he  groaned,  "  she  has  no 
more  thought  of  me  than  —  Uncle  Cephas." 

When  his  mother  and  sister  returned,  and  the 
supper  bell  rang,  he  opened  the  door  to  say  to 
Marion  that  he  would  have  no  supper,  he  had  work 
to  do. 

"Yes,"  he  thought  grimly,  "I  have  work  to  do — 
to  fight  myself  into  shape." 


372  GROWING  UP. 


XXXL 

ABOUT  WOMEN. 

"  Like  a  blind  spinner  in  the  SUB, 

I  tread  my  days ; 
I  know  that  all  the  threads  will  run 

Appointed  ways ; 

I  know  each  day  will  bring  its  task, 
And,  being  blind,  no  more  I  ask."  H.  H. 

"  I  WISH  you  would  tell  Judith  Mackenzie  all  you 
know  about  women's  doings,"  said  Jean  Draper 
Prince  one  morning  late  in  November. 

"  I  am  ready  to  give  the  Bensalem  girls  a  lecture 
upon  what  women  outside  of  Bensalem  are  doing," 
said  the  lady  in  the  bamboo  rocker  with  her  knit 
ting.  "  All  the  ambitious  girls,  all  the  discouraged 
girls." 

The  bam  ooo  rocKer  was  Jean's  wedding  present 
from  Judith  Mackenzie;  Jean  had  told  Mrs.  Lane 
that  the  broad  blue  ribbon  bow  tied  upon  it  was  ex 
actly  the  color  of  Judith's  eyes. 

Mrs.  Lane  had  not  visited  Bensa!«4n  since  the 


ABOUT  WOMEN.  373 

summer  she  gave  Jean  Draper  the  inspiration  of  her 
outing ;  but  many  letters  had  kept  alive  her  interest 
in  the  Bensalem  girl,  and  kept  growing  the  love  arid 
admiration  of  the  village  girl  for  the  lady  who  lived 
in  the  world  and  knew  all  about  it. 

Jean  said  her  loveliest  wedding  present  was  the 
week  Mrs.  Lane  came  to  Bensalem  to  give  to  her. 
The  loveliest  wedding  present  was  shared  with 
Judith  Mackenzie. 

Jean's  husband  was  the  village  blacksmith;  his 
new,  pretty  house  was  next  door  to  his  shop.  It 
was  not  all  paid  for,  and  Jean  was  helping  to  pay  for 
it  by  saving  all  the  money  she  could  out  of  her  house 
keeping.  If  she  only  might  earn  money,  she  sighed, 
but  her  husband  laughed  at  the  idea,  saying  his  two 
strong  hands  were  to  be  forever  at  her  service 

The  small  parlor  was  in  its  usual  pretty  order; 
in  the  sitting-room  were  a  flower  stand,  and  a 
canary's  cage ;  Mrs.  Lane  preferred  the  sitting-room, 
but  with  her  instinct  that  "  company  "  should  have 
the  best  room,  Jean  had  urged  her  into  the  parlor, 
drawing  down  the  shade?  a  little  that  the  sunlight 
should  not  fade  the  roses  in  the  new  carpet. 

"  Judith  is  the  craziest  girl  about  doing  things," 


374  GROWING   UP. 

replied  Jean ;  "  she  is  ambitious,  and  she  thinks  she 
must  earn  money.  I  told  her  you  wrote  for  a  paper 
that  was  full  of  business  for  women,  and  could  tell 
her  what  to  do," 

"  What  does  she  wish  to  do  ? " 

"  Study,  and  write  —  she  writes  the  dearest  little 
stories, —  or  anything  else,  if  she  cannot  do  that. 
She  has  ideas"  said  Jean,  gravely ;  " she  is  a  rusher 
into  new  things.  I  wish  she  would  be  married  and 
have  a  nice  little  home  and  care  how  the  bread  rises 
and  the  pudding  comes  out  of  the  oven." 

"  Isn't  she  interested  in  housekeeping  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes.  But  it  is  Miss  Marion's.  Not  her  own. 
It  is  the  own  that  makes  the  difference,"  replied  the 
girl-wife  contentedly,  nodding  and  smiling  out  the 
window  to  the  man  in  shirt-sleeves  and  leather 
apron  who  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  shop  talking 
to  the  minister  on  horseback. 

How  could  she  ever  tell  Judith  that  Bensalem 
was  gossiping  about  her  staying  at  the  parsonage  ? 

"  Your  work  is  your  own ;  it  comes  to  be  your 
own,  whatever  it  is.  Every  girl  cannot  marry  a 
blacksmith,  Jean,  and  have  a  small  home  of  her 
own." 


ABOUT  WOMEN.  375 

"  I  know  it.  I  wish  they  could.  What  I  wish 
most  for  Judith  is  for  her  to  go  back  to  Aunt  Affy's." 

That  afternoon  as  the  three  sat  together  in  the 
blacksmith's  parlor,  Jean  with  towels  she  was  hem 
ming  for  her  mother,  and  the  other  two  with  idle 
hands  and  work  upon  their  laps,  Jean  suddenly 
asked  Mrs.  Lane  to  tell  them  about  women  and  their 
doings. 

"  As  I  waited  in  the  station  for  my  train  the  day 
I  came  here,"  began  Mrs.  Lane  in  the  conversational 
tone  of  one  prepared  for  a  long  talk, "  a  lady  sat 
near  me,  also  waiting,  with  a  bag  in  her  hand.  I 
had  a  bag  in  my  hand,  but  there  was  nothing  un 
usual  in  mine ;  she  told  me  she  was  going  to  Dun- 
ellen  to  take  care  of  ladies'  finger-nails.  She  had  a 
good  business  in  Dunellen  and  the  suburbs  in  sum 
mer,  when  the  people  were  in  their  country  homes ; 
there  were  a  few  ladies  who  expected  her  that  day." 

"  I  wouldn't  like  to  do  that,"  declared  Jean,  "  al 
though  I  would  do  almost  anything  to  pay  off  our 
mortgage." 

"  In  Buffalo  is  a  woman  who  runs  a  street-cleaning 
bureau ;  in  Kansas  City  a  woman  is  at  the  head  of  a 
fire  department." 


376  GROWING   UP.  , 

"  Worse  and  worse,"  laughed  Jean. 

"  A  Louisville  lady  makes  shopping  trips  to  Paris." 

"  Splendid,"  exclaimed  Jean,  who  still  dreamed  of 
outings. 

"A  lady  in  New  York  makes  flat-furnishing  a 
business." 

"  That  is  making  a  home  for  other  people,"  said 
Jean. 

"  But  her  own  at  the  same  time,"  answered  Judith. 

"New  Hampshire  has  a  woman  president  of  a 
street  railway  company ;  and  in  Chicago  is  a  woman 
who  embalms  —  " 

"  Dead  people,"  interrupted  Jean  ;  "  oh,  dear  me !" 

"  The  world  is  learning  the  resources  of  the  nine 
teenth  century  woman.  A  Swiss  woman  has  in 
vented  a  watch  for  the  blind.  The  hours  on  the 
dial  are  indicated  by  pegs,  which  sink  in,  one  every 
hour." 

"  That  is  worth  doing,"  observed  Judith ;  "  I  want 
to  do  real  work.  I  know  I  do  not  mean  my  work 
to  end  with  myself." 

"Lady  Somebody  has  classified  her  husband's 
books,  with  a  catalogue  —  his  papers  fill  five  rooms ; 
think  of  the  work  before  her." 


ABOUT  WOMEN.  377 

"  But  that  is  not  for  herself,"  demurred  Judith. 

"  I  believe  Judith  would  like  to  be  famous,"  said 
Jean  with  a  laugh.  "  Bensalem  is  such  a  little  spot 
to  her." 

"A  lady  is  about  to  translate  King  Oscar  of 
Sweden's  works  into  English ;  would  you  like  to  do 
that,  Judith  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Lane,  who  felt  that  she 
had  been  a  friend  of  Judith  MacKenzie's  ever  since 
Jean  Draper  had  known  her  and  written  of  their 
girlhood  together. 

"  Not  exactly  that,"  said  Judith. 

"  The  first  woman  rabbi  in  the  world  is  in  Cali 
fornia.  She  has  been  trained  in  a  Hebrew  College ; 
Rabbi  Moses,  the  celebrated  Jewish  divine  in 
Chicago,  urges  her  to  take  a  congregation." 

"Then  how  can  the  men  give  thanks  in  their 
prayers  that  they  are  not  born  women?"  asked 
Judith  quickly. 

"  Do  the  Jews  do  that  ?  "  inquired  Jean. 

"  Yes.  But  I  don't  believe  old  Moses  did,  or  this 
Rabbi  Moses,"  said  Judith. 

"A  lady  has  received  the  degree  of  electrical 
engineer,"  continued  Mrs.  Lane,  who  appeared  to 
both  her  listeners  to  be  a  Cyclopedia  of  Information 
Concerning  Women. 


378  GROWING   UP. 

"Judith  doesn't  mean  such  things,"  explained 
Jean ;  "I  don't  believe  she  wants  David  to  teach  her 
to  be  a  blacksmith.  But  there  is  a  woman  in 
Dunellen  who  has  a  sick  husband,  and  she  is  doing 
his  work  in  the  butcher's  shop." 

"  Would  you  rather  go  to  Washington,  that  city 
of  opportunities  for  girls  ?  The  government  offices 
are  filled  with  women,  and  young  women.  Those 
who  pass  the  civil  service  examination  must  be 
over  twenty.  Many  states  of  the  Union  are  rep 
resented.  As  the  departments  close  at  four  in 
the  afternoon,  some  of  the  girls  take  time  for  other 
employments,  or  for  study.  One  I  read  of  attends 
medical  lectures  at  night.  Some,  who  love  study, 
belong  to  the  Chautauqua  Circle.  French  women, 
as  a  rule,  have  a  good  business  education.  In  the 
common  schools  they  are  taught  household  book 
keeping.  The  French  woman  is  expected  to  help 
her  husband  in  his  business." 

"  Not  if  he  is  a  blacksmith,"  interjects  the  black 
smith's  wife. 

"  Harper  has  published  a  series  called  the  Distaff 
Series :  all  the  mechanical  work,  type-setting,  print 
ing,  binding,  covering,  and  designing  was  all  done 
by  women." 


ABOUT  WOMEN.  379 

"I  think  I  would  rather  make  the  inside  of  a 
book,"  said  Judith.  "But  think  of  the  women  that 
do  that  and  every  kind  of  a  book." 

a  A  lady  took  the  four  hundred  dollar  prize  math 
ematical  scholarship  at  Cornell  University.  There 
were  twelve  applicants ;  nine  were  women." 

"That  is  hard  work,"  acknowledged  Judith,  to 
whom  Arithmetic  and  Algebra  were  never  a  success. 
She  had  even  shed  tears  over  Geometry,  and  how 
Roger  had  laughed  at  her. 

"  There's  a  lady  on  Long  Island  who  has  a  farm 
of  five  hundred  acres;  they  call  the  farm,  'Old 
Brick.'" 

"Horrid  name,"  interrupted  Jean,  turning  care 
fully  the  narrow  hem  of  the  coarse  toweL 

"  It  was  a  dairy  farm,  but  she  found  milk  not 
profitable  enough,  and  gave  it  up  and  made  a  study 
of  live  stock.  She  has  made  a  reputation  as  a  stock 
raiser ;  she  raises  trotters  and  road  horses,"  said  Mrs. 
Lane,  watching  the  effect  of  her  words  upon  Judith, 

Judith  colored  and  looked  displeased.  Was  this 
all  Mrs.  Lane,  Jean's  ideal  lady,  had  to  tell  her  of 
women's  brave  work  ? 

"  In  Italy  nearly  two  millions  of  women  aie  en> 


380  GROWING   UP. 

ployed  in  industrial  pursuits,  cotton,  silk,  linen,  and 
jute.  Three  million  women  are  busy  in  agriculture. 
You  might  try  agriculture  here  in  Bensalem.* 

"  What  do  their  homes  do  ? "  inquired  Jean,  the 
home-maker. 

"  Oh,  they  do  woman's  work,  beside." 

"  It  is  all  woman's  work,  I  suppose,  if  women  do 
it,"  answered  Judith,  discouraged. 

"  Judith,  who  is  the  sweetest  woman  you  know  ? " 
asked  Mrs.  Lane,  touched  by  the  droop  of  the  gWs 
head  and  the  trouble  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  know  ever  so  many.  No  one  could  be  sweeter 
than  my  mother.  And  my  Aunt  Affy  is  strong  and 
sweet,  and  doing  good  to  everybody.  And  Mrs.  Ken- 
ney,  Marion's  mother,  she  is  in  things,  busy  and 
bright  always." 

"  I  have  told  you  some  things  women  may  do ;  now 
111  cell  you  some  things  a  woman  — one  woman  — 
may  not  do.  She  cannot  do  —  is  n^t  allowed  to  do  ? 
some  things  a  washer-woman  in  Bensalem  may  do  — 
But  I'll  read  you  the  slip ;  I  have  it  in  my  pocket- 
book." 

Sha  took  the  cutting  from  her  pocket-book  and 
asked  Judith  to  read  it  aloud. 


ABOUT  WOMEN.  381 

Judith  read :  "  Queen  Victoria,  not  being  born  a 
queen,  probably  learned  to  read  just  like  other  per 
sons.  But  after  she  became  afflicted  with  royalty 
she  found  that  a  queen  is  not  allowed  to  have  a 
great  many  privileges  that  the  humblest  of  her  sub 
jects  can  boast.  For  instance,  she  isn't  allowed  to 
handle  a  newspaper  of  any  kind,  nor  a  magazine,  nor 
a  letter  from  any  person  except  from  her  own  family, 
and  no  member  of  the  royal  family  or  household  is 
allowed  to  speak  to  her  of  any  piece  of  news  in  any 
publication.  All  the  information  the  queen  is  per 
mitted  must  first  be  strained  through  the  intellect  of 
a  man  whose  business  it  is  to  cut  out  from  the  papers 
each  day  what  he  thinks  she  would  like  to  know. 
These  scraps  he  fastens  on  a  silken  sheet  with  a  gold 
fringe  all  about  it,  and  presents  to  her  unfortunate 
majesty.  This  silken  sheet  with  gold  fringe  is  im 
perative  for  all  communications  to  the  queen. 

"Any  one  who  wishes  to  send  the  queen  a  personal 
poem  or  a  communication  of  any  kind  (except  a 
personal  letter,  which  the  poor  lady  isn't  allowed  to 
have  at  all)  must  have  it  printed  in  gold  letters  on 
one  side  of  these  silk  sheets  with  a  gold  fringe,  just 
so  many  inches  wide  and  no  wider,  all  about  it 


382  GROWING  OP. 

These  gold  trimmings  will  be  returned  to  him  in 
time,  as  they  are  expensive,  and  the  queen  is  kindly 
and  thrifty;  but  for  the  queen's  presents  they  are 
imperative.  The  deprivations  of  the  queen's  life 
are  pathetically  illustrated  by  an  incident  which 
occurred  not  long  ago.  An  American  lad  sent  her 
majesty  an  immense  collection  of  the  flowers  of  this 
country,  pressed  and  mounted.  The  queen  was  de 
lighted  with  the  collection  and  kept  it  for  three 
months,  turning  over  the  leaves  frequently  with 
great  delight.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  which  was 
as  long  as  she  was  allowed  by  the  court  etiquette  to 
keep  it,  she  had  it  sent  back  with  a  letter  saying 
that,  being  queen  of  England,  she  was  not  allowed 
to  have  any  gifts,  and  that  she  parted  from  them 
with  deep  regret." 

"Well,"  exclaimed  Jean,  with  an  energy  that 
brought  a  laugh  from  her  small  audience,  "  I  would 
rather  be  the  Bensalem  blacksmith's  wife." 

"  I  wish  I  could  take  this  to  Nettie,"  said  Judith ; 
"she  thinks  sometimes  she  would  like  to  be  a 
queen." 

"  She  is,  in  her  small  province,"  replied  Mrs.  Lane. 
"  I  have  something  for  her ;  I  think  I  can  help  her 


ABOUT  WOMEN.  383 

step  out  into  as  wide  a  world  as  she  cares  to  live  in. 
No ;  don't  ask  me ;  it  is  to  be  her  secret  and  my 
own.  Now,  Judith,  tell  me,  what  is  the  secret  of 
the  happy  and  useful  lives  you  know  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Judith,  truthfully.  "But 
they  are  all  married.  I  am  thinking  of  girls  —  like 
me.  Their  work  came  to  them." 

"As  mine  did,"  said  Jean,  contentedly,  with  a 
glance  from  her  work  out  the  window  where  the 
blacksmith  was  shoeing  a  horse. 

"  Your  Aunt  Affy  was  not  married  —  " 

"  No,  she  was  not.  She  had  her  work.  It  was 
in  her  home.  She  was  born  among  her  work.  But 
I  have  not  a  home  like  that,"  Judith  answered  in 
short,  sharp  sentences. 

"Why,  Judith,"  reproached  Jean,  "what  would 
Aunt  Affy  say  to  that  ?  " 

"  It  would  hurt  her.  She  would  look  sorry.  I  do 
not  know  what  gets  into  me,  sometimes.  She  would 
adopt  me  and  be  like  my  own  mother." 

"  Do  you  resist  such  a  sweet  mothering  as  that  ? " 
rebuked  Mrs.  Lane.  "  I  think  I  lost  some  of  the 
sermon  Sunday  morning  by  looking  at  her  face." 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  resist  her."  said  Judith,  not 
able  to  keep  the  tears  back.  ^ 


384  GROWING   UP. 

"She  told  mother  her  heart  ached  to  have  you 
back,"  persuaded  Jean,  "since  her  sister  died  she 
had  so  longed  for  her  little  girL" 

"I'm  afraid  I  am  not  doing  right,"  confessed 
Judith,  "but  I  was  almost  homesick  there,  when 
Aunt  Eody  was  sick.  And  then,  I  think  I  must 
learn  to  support  myself,  and  not  be  dependent." 

"  Oh,  you  American  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Lane. 

"And  with  Aunt  Affy  for  your  mother"  added 
Jean ;  "  I  told  Mrs.  Lane  you  had  ideas." 

"  I  should  think  I  had,"  said  Judith,  laughing  to 
keep  the  tears  back.  "I'm  afraid  I've  forgotten 
Aunt  Affy.  She  loves  two  people  in  me,  she  says ; 
my  mother  and  me.  I  don't  know  what  has  pos 
sessed  me." 

"  Ambition,  perhaps,"  Mrs.  Lane  suggested,  taking 
up  her  knitting,  —  a  long  black  stocking  for  her  only 
grandchild. 

"Not  just  that,"  Judith  reasoned;  "it  is  more 
making  something  of  myself  for  myself.  Culture 
for  its  own  sake,"  she  quoted  from  Eoger,  who  had 
warned  her  against  her  devotion  to  self-culture; 
"  and  I  give  it  a  self-sacrificing  name ;  the  desire  to 
be  independent.  I  do  not  know  why  I  should  not 


ABOUT  WOMEN.  385 

be  dependent  on  Aunt  Affy.  My  mother  was  — 
and  loved  it." 

"  No  service  could  be  more  acceptable  than  serving 
her,"  said  Mrs.  Lane;  "the  world  is  only  a  larger 
Bensalem." 

"  It  isn't  the  world  I  wanted,"  replied  Judith,  im 
patiently. 

When  Judith  went  away  Jean  walked  down  the 
street  with  her.  "Are  you  disappointed  in  Mrs. 
Lane  ? "  she  asked. 

"  She  did  not  tell  me  what  I  hoped  and  expected. 
She  told  me  something  better.  I  think  I  can  study 
at  Aunt  Affy's,"  in  the  tone  of  one  having  made  a. 
sacrifice. 

"  And  go  to  the  parsonage  every  day, "  said  Jean 
eagerly,  and  yet  afraid  of  pressing  her  point. 

"  Yes  —  if  I  wish  to,"  replied  Judith  slowly,  surpris 
ing  herself  by  coming  to  a  decision. 

"  Bensalem  is  such  a  place  for  talk,"  Jean 
ventured,  not  that  she  was  confident  of  success. 
"Everybody  knows  everybody's  business  and  is  in 
terested  in  it." 

"  But  it  is  kindly  talk,"  said  Judith,  whom  gossip 
had  touched  lightly. 


386  GROWING   UP. 

"  Yes,  sometimes  —  not  always,"  Jean  hesitated ; 
"  people  will  misjudge." 

"  Jean  Draper,  what  do  you  mean  ? "  asked  Judith, 
blazing  angrily ;  "  are  you  trying  to  tell  me  some 
thing  ? " 

"No,"  replied  Jean,  startled  at  Judith's  unusual 
vehemence.  "I  only  want  you  to  understand  that 
Aunt  Affy  is  talked  about  for  letting  you  stay  so 
much  at  the  parsonage." 

"  How  could  it  hurt  anybody  ? " 

"  They  say  Aunt  Affy  is  —  scheming,"  she  said, 
watching  the  effect  of  her  words. 

"  Scheming.  What  about  ?  What  does  she  gain  ? " 
asked  Judith,  provoked. 

"  The  gain  is  for  you,"  said  Jean,  at  last,  desper 
ately  ;  "  they  say  she  wants  to  marry  you  to  the  min 
ister." 

Now  she  had  said  it.  She  stood  still,  frightened. 
Judith  left  her  without  another  word,  going  straight 
on  to  the  parsonage.  After  a  moment  Jean  turned 
and  went  home. 

What  would  Judith  do  ?  She  looked  angry  enough 
to  do  anything.  But  she  had  shielded  her  from  fur 
ther  talk.  Bensalem  should  have  no  more  to  say. 


ABOUT    WOMEN.  387 

Judith  went  on  dazed.  Now  she  understood  it 
all ;  Martha  was  coming  that  she  might  go ;  they 
did  not  like  to  tell  her  to  go  ;  they  were  all  too  kind. 
As  if  Aunt  Affy  could  plot  like  that.  As  if  Aunt 
Affy  cared  for  that :  Aunt  Affy  who  wanted  to  keep 
her  always. 

Had  Marion  heard  the  talk  ?  And  Roger  ?  Was 
he  glad  to  send  her  away  with  his  mother  ?  She 
would  fly  to  Aunt  Affy  that  very  night;  the  old 
house  would  be  her  refuge.  She  would  go  back  to 
Aunt  Affy  —  and  her  mother's  home.  Roger,  her 
saint,  her  hero,  her  ideal  —  he  could  never  think  of 
her — like  that. 

She  opened  the  door  and  went  in.  Marion  had 
taken  her  mother  for  a  drive.  The  study  door  was 
shut,  the  usual  signal  when  Roger  was  busy.  But 
she  often  ventured ;  the  shut  door  had  never  barred 
her  out.  Nothing  had  ever  kept  her  away  from 
Roger.  She  tapped  ;  Roger  called :  "  Come  in." 

He  was  writing  and  did  not  lift  his  eyes. 

She  waited ;  he  looked  up  and  smiled. 

"  Can  you  stop  one  minute  ? "  she  asked,  faintly. 

"  One  and  a  half." 

"  I  came  to  tell  you  that  I  have  thought  it  over ; 
I  would  rather  not  go  home  with  Mrs.  Kenney." 


388  GROWING    UP. 

"  Stay  then,  with  all  my  heart." 

"  But  not  with  all  my  heart.  I  am  going  to  Aunt 
Affy's  instead.  She  wants  me,"  she  said,  quietly, 
with  a  quiver  of  the  lip. 

"I  should  think  she  would.' 

"  I  did  not  know  how  much.  She  herself  would 
not  tell  me.  Jean  Draper  told  me.  Aunt  Affy  told 
her  mother." 

"  That  will  not  change  our  plans  of  study  at  all." 

"  No ;  it  need  not." 

"  It  shall  not." 

"I  think  I  can  get  on  alone  awhile.  You  have 
taught  me  how  to  use  books.  You  have  shown  me 
that  they  are  tools.  I  can  write  by  myself.  You 
have  been  to  me  like  Maria  Edgeworth's  father. 
Perhaps  it  is  time  for  Maria  to  stand  alone." 

"  You  are  tired  of  my  teaching." 

"  Oh,  no ;  I  am  not  tired  of  anything  —  excepting 
Bensalem.  I  hate  Bensalem,"  she  burst  out  with 
anger  and  contrition. 

"  What  has  Bensalem  done  now  ?  " 

"  Nothing  unusual.  Will  you  tell  Marion  I  am 
going  —  home  to  stay  to-night  ?  Martha  will  come 
and  help  her  in  the  housekeeping." 


ABOUT  WOMEN.  389 

"  Judith,  has  any  one  hurt  you  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Judith,  smiling  with  the  tears  starting ; 
"  you  are  all  too  kind." 

"  Is  it  for  Aunt  Affy  you  are  going  ?  Judith,  you 
cannot  deceive  me." 

"  No ;  I  do  not  think  I  can.  I  am  going  for  Aunt 
Affy's  sake,  Boger." 

"  Because  she  misses  you  ? " 

"Yes,  because  she  misses  me,  and  needs  me. 
People  think  and  say  —  she  is  not  taking  good  care 
of  me.  I  wish  to  prove  to  them  that  she  is." 

"  That  is  sheer  nonsense,"  he  exclaimed,  angrily. 

"  It  is  not  nonsense  that  she  misses  me  now  that 
her  sister  is  gone.  I  never  had  any  sister  excepting 
Marion,  hut  I  know  it  was  dreadful  for  Aunt  Affy 
to  lose  her  sister.  If  you  haven't  helped  me  to 
study  alone,  to  depend  upon  myself,  you  have  been 
very  little  help  to  me." 

"  That  is  true,"  he  laughed,  "  but  the  studying  is 
only  a  part  of  what  the  parsonage  is  to  you." 

"  It  was  my  reason  for  coming,  and  staying,  she 
said,  simply,  flushing  and  trembling. 

"  True ;  I  had  forgotten  that.  Yes ;  it  is  better 
for  you  to  go ;  best  for  you  to  go.  Come  to-morrow 


GROWING    UP. 


and  talk  it  over  to  Marion  and  my  mother.  I  will 
tell  them  only  that  you  have  gone  —  home,  to  spend 
the  night." 

He  took  up  his  pen,  it  trembled  in  his  grasp; 
Judith  went  out  and  shut  the  door  that  he  might 
not  be  disturbed. 

"I  am  giving  it  all  up,"  she  thought,  as  she 
pressed  a  few  things  into  a  satchel ;  "  all  I  was  going 
away  to  get ;  perhaps  this  is  the  way  my  prayer  for 
work  is  being  answered." 

They  were  at  supper  when  she  stood  in  the  door 
way  ;  Aunt  Affy  at  the  head  of  the  table  behind  the 
tea-pot  and  the  cups  and  saucers ;  her  husband  op 
posite  her,  genial,  handsome,  satisfied,  and  Joe,  at 
one  side  of  the  round  table,  tall,  fine-looking,  with 
his  gray,  thoughtful  eyes,  refined  lips,  and  modest 
manner.  Joe  was  a  son  to  be  proud  of,  the  old  pao- 
ple  sometimes  said  to  each  other. 

There  was  no  chair  opposite  Joe,  no  plate,  and 
knife  and  fork  and  napkin.  Uncle  Cephas  liked  a 
hot  supper;  they  had  chicken  stew  to-night,  and 
boiled  rice.  It  was  like  home,  the  faces,  the  things 
on  the  supper-table.  She  was  homesick  enough  to 
long  for  some  place  "  like  "  home.  The  parsonage 


ABOUT  WOMEN,  391 

could  never  be  her  home  again,  with  Martha  in  her 
place;  perhaps  Martha  had  been  wishing  to  come 
for  years ;  perhaps  her  selfishness  had  kept  Martha 
away. 

John  would  be  married,  Martha  would  be  in  her 
place  at  the  parsonage,  —  Don  was  too  far  away  to 
know,  and  too  absorbed  in  his  wife  to  care;  Mrs. 
Kenney  did  not  really  want  her,  she  had  only  asked 
her  to  go  home  with  her  to  get  her  away  from  the 
parsonage;  the  only  home  she  had  a  right  to  was 
this  home  where  her  mother  had  been  a  little  girl. 

"Why,  Judith,"  cried  Aunt  Affy,  rising,  "dear 
child,  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I  wanted  to  come  home,"  said  Judith. 


392  GROWING  UP. 


xxxn. 

AUNT  AFFY'S  PICTURE. 

"  That  only  which  we  have  within  can  we  see  without." 

EMERSON. 

JUDITH  stood  at  the  sitting-room  window  looking 
out/  into  the  March  snow-storm.  There  had  been 
many  snow-storms  since  that  November  night  she 
came  to  the  threshold  and  stood  looking  in  at  the 
happy  supper-table.  Aunt  Affy  had  opened  her 
arms  and  heart  anew  and  folded  her  close:  "My 
lamb  has  come  back,"  she  said. 

"  To  stay  back,"  Judith  whispered,  hiding  her  face 
on  Aunt  Affy's  shoulder. 

That  night  was  nearly  two  years  ago ;  she  would 
be  twenty  in  April.  She  was  not "  twenty  in  April " 
to  Aunt  Affy;  she  was  still  her  "lamb"  and  her 
"little  girl." 

In  her  dark  blue  cloth  dress,  and  with  her  yellow 
head  and  rose-tinted  cheeks,  she  did  not  look  as 


AUNT  AFFY'S  PICTURE.  393 

grown-up  as  she  felt ;  she  had  taken  life,  not  only 
with  both  hands,  but  with  heart,  brain,  and  spirit, 
and  with  all  her  might.  There  was  nothing  in  her 
that  she  had  not  put  into  her  life;  her  simple, 
Bensalem  life. 

"  Aunt  Affy,"  she  said,  as  Aunt  Affy's  step  paused 
on  the  threshold  between  kitchen  and  sitting-room: 
"  Come  and  rest  awhile  in  this  fire-light.  This  fire 
on  the  hearth  to-night  reminds  me  of  the  glow  of 
the  grate  in  Summer  Avenue  when  I  used  to  tell 
pictures  to  mother." 

Aunt  Affy  pulled  down  the  shades  ;  Judith  drew 
Aunt  Affy's  chair  to  the  home-made  rug  —  Aunt 
Body's  rug,  —  to  the  hearth,  and  then  sat  down  on 
the  hassock  at  her  feet,  and  looked  into  the  fire,  not 
the  curly-headed  girl  in  Summer  Avenue,  but  the 
girl  grown  up. 

"  Aunt  Affy,  tell  me  a  picture,"  she  coaxed. 

"What  about?" 

"About  myself.  I'm  afraid  I  am  too  full  of  my 
self.  I  cannot  understand  something.  I  can  tell 
you  about  it,  for  it  is  past,  and  I  can  look  at  it  as 
something  in  the  past.  You  know  those  years  I  was 
at  the  parsonage,  at  my  boarding-school,  I  was 
crammed  full  with  one  hope." 


394  GROWING  UP, 

Judith  was  looking  at  the  fire ;  the  eyes  looking 
down  at  her  were  solicitous,  tender.  She  had  been 
afraid  Judith  "cared  too  much"  for  the  young 
minister ;  but  it  must  be  over  now,  or  she  could  not 
tell  her  about  it  so  frankly. 

"  I  dreamed  it,  I  studied  it,  I  wrote  it,  I  prayed 
about  it,  I  breathed  it." 

"  Ch,"  said  Aunt  Affy,  with  a  quick,  heavy  sigh. 

"  Don't  pity  me.  It  was  good  for  me,  blessed  for 
me,  or  it  could  not  have  happened,  you  know.  I 
thought  there  was  some  great  work  for  me  to  do  —  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Aunt  Affy,  with  a  quick,  relieved  cry. 

"  I  was  not  sure  whether  it  were  to  write  a  book, 
or  to  teach,  or  to  go  as  a  foreign  missionary  ;  I  think 
I  hoped  it  would  be  the  foreign  missionary,  because 
that  was  the  most  self-sacrificing.  The  book  was 
all  one  great  joy.  The  teaching  was  absorbing,  but 
I  must  go  away  to  study.  I  was  afraid  to  go  away, 
I  did  not  like  to  go  away  from  Bensalem,  I  would 
miss  my  mother  away  from  Bensalem,  and  you,  and 
all  the  parsonage,  and  the  whole  village.  But  I 
thought  I  was  called;  as  called  as  Eoger  was  to 
preach,  or  any  woman,  saint,  or  heroine,  who  had 
done  a  great  thing.  You  cannot  think  what  it  was 


AUNT  AFFY'S  PICTURE.  895 

to  me.  It  made  me  old.  I  wanted  God  to  speak 
out  of  Heaven  and  tell  me  what  to  do.  It  began  to 
lose  its  selfishness,  after  that.  The  first  thing  that 
began  to  shake  my  confidence  was  something  Mrs. 
Lane  said  that  afternoon  she  talked  to  Jean  and  me 
about  what  women  were  doing  and  could  do.  She 
did  not  make  woman's  work  attractive ;  she  took  the 
heart  out  of  me.  I  did  not  know  why  she  should 
do  that.  I  knew  better  all  the  time.  I  knew  what 
women  had  done  and  were  doing.  I  knew  she  was 
doing  a  noble  work,  literary  work,  work  in  prisons, 
temperance  work ;  the  instances  she  gave  me  seemed 
trivial,  as  if  she  were  laughing  at  me.  But  some 
thing  opened  my  eyes ;  I  felt  that  I  might  be  dis 
obedient  to  my  heavenly  vision,  that  I  was  looking 
up  into  the  heavens  for  my  call,  and  the  voice  might 
be  all  the  time  in  my  ear.  That  was  the  night  I 
came  back  here  and  found  you  so  cozy  and  satisfied 
under  your  own  roof-tree,  with  the  voice  in  your  ear, 
and  the  work  in  your  hand.  The  world  went  away 
from  me.  I  stayed.  I  am  glad  I  stayed.  My  only 
trouble  is,  and  it  is  a  real  trouble,  that  God  did  not 
care  for  my  purpose,  or  my  prayers ;  that  he  has  let 
them  go  as  if  they  never  entered  into  his  mind ;  I 
bought  they  were  in  his  heart  as  well  as  mine." 


396  GROWING  UP. 

"They  are,  Deary,"  said  Aunt  Affy,  wiping  her 
eyes ;  "  He  will  not  let  one  of  them  go." 

"But  He  did  not  do  anything  with  them.  He 
did  not  love  my  plan,  and  my  prayers,"  said  Judith, 
wearily. 

"Do  you  remember  one  time  when  Jesus  was  on 
the  earth,  a  man,  clothed  and  in  his  right  mind,  sat 
at  Jesus'  feet  ?  He  had  so  much  to  be  thankful  for ; 
no  man  ever  had  so  much.  And  he  sat  at  Jesus' 
feet,  near  him  because  he  loved  him,  and  looked  up 
into  his  face  and  listened.  That  was  all  he  wanted 
on  the  earth,  to  be  with  Jesus ;  to  follow  him  every 
where,  to  obey  every  word  he  said,  to  always  see  his 
face,  to  serve  him.  Did  not  the  Lord  care  for  such 
love  when  so  many  were  scorning  him  and  ashamed 
to  be  his  disciples  ?  When  he  came  to  his  own,  and 
his  own  received  him  not.  When  the  man  found 
(that  Jesus  was  going  away,  that  his  countrymen 
were  sending  him  away,  beseeching  him  to  go,  he  be 
sought  Jesus,  which  was  more  than  one  asking,  that 
he  might  go  with  him.  That  was  all  he  wanted: 
just  to  go  with  him.  Just  as  all  you  wanted  was 
to  be  with  him  and  do  something  he  said,  and  be 
sure  he  said  it.  But  Jesus  sent  this  man  away.  He 
refused  him ;  he  denied  his  prayer." 


AUNT  AFFY'S  PICTURE.  397 

"  That  was  very  hard,"  said  Judith. 

"  Very  hard.  It  was  like  giving  him  a  glimpse  of 
Heaven — it  was  Heaven,  and  then  shutting  the 
door  in  his  face  as  he  prayed." 

"  Yes,"  said  Judith,  who  understood. 

"  But  he  did  speak  to  him  ;  he  told  him  what  to 
do :  '  Eeturn  to  thine  own  house.'  If  he  had  father, 
mother,  brother,  sister,  wife,  children,  go  back  to 
them  and  tell  them  how  good  God  had  been  to  him. 
When  I  look  at  you,  Deary,  stepping  about  the 
house,  so  pretty  and  bright,  I  think  of  how  glad 
your  mother  must  be  if  she  sees  you.  How  glad  to 
know  the  little  girl  she  left  was  taken  care  of.  And 
in  church  when  you  play  the  organ,  and  in  Sunday 
School,  and  at  the  Lord's  own  table,  and  doing  er 
rands  all  around  the  village,  you  are  a  blessing  in 
your  '  own  house.'  " 

Judith's  head  went  down  on  Aunt  Affy's  knee. 

"  This  man  went  through  the  '  whole  city '  beside ; 
his  own  house  grew  into  the  whole  city.  Your  life 
isn't  ended  yet ;  to  old  folks  like  Uncle  Cephas  and 
me,  it  seems  just  begun.  Your  own  house  is  only 
just  the  beginning  of  the  whole  city.  I've  only  had 
my  own  house  and  Bensalem,  but  I  seem  to  think 


398  GROWING   UP. 

there's  a  whole  city  for  you.  The  Lord  knew  about 
the  whole  city  when  he  denied  his  prayer  and  sent 
him  to  his  own  house." 

Judith  did  not  lift  her  head ;  her  tears  were  tears 
of  shame  and  penitence. 

"Now,  here  come  the  men  folks,"  roused  Aunt 
Affy,  cheerily;  "and  supper  they  must  have  to 
keep  them  good-natured." 

"I  am  only  in  my  'own  house'  yet,"  said  Judith, 
as  she  moved  about  setting  the  supper  table  as  she 
had  done  when  she  was  a  little  girL 


NETTIE'S  OUTING.  399 


xxxin. 

NETTIE'S  OUTING. 

"Does  the  road  wind  up  hill  all  the  way  1 " 

"Yes,  to  the  very  end." 
"Will  the  day's  journey  take  the  whole,  long  day  f  " 

"  From  morn  to  night,  my  friend." 

CHKISTINA  G.  ROSSBTTI. 

THIS  same  evening,  in  the  March  snow-storm, 
Nettie  Evans  sat  in  her  invalid  chair  beside  the 
table  in  her  chamber.  Nettie  had  not  grown  up  in 
appearance ;  face  and  figure  were  slight,  her  cheeks 
were  pale,  her  eyes  large  and  luminous ;  her  laugh 
was  as  light-hearted  as  the  laugh  of  any  girl  in  the 
village ;  her  father  often  told  her  that  she  was  the 
busiest  maiden  in  Bensalem. 

Her  busy  times  grew  out  of  Mrs.  Lane's  secret. 

Nettie  was  the  member  of  a  society;  the  Shut- 
In  Society.  It  was  an  organized  society ;  it  pub- 


400  GROWING   UP. 

lished    a   magazine    monthly :    The  Open   Window, 
with  a  motto  upon  its  title-page : 

"  The  windows  of  my  soul  I  throw 
Wide  open  to  the  sun." 

Since  Mrs.  Lane  had  told  her  about  the  Society 
and  made  her  a  member  she  had  thrown  the  win 
dows  of  her  soul  wide  open  to  the  sun. 

And  the  Lord  shut  him  in,  was  the  motto  of  the 
Society.  Nettie  had  marked  the  precious  words  in 
her  Bible  with  the  date  of  her  accident,  and  another 
date :  the  day  when  she  became  a  member  of  the 
Shut-In  Society. 

The  Open  Window  had  come  in  to-night's  mail; 
Nettie  had  been  counting  the  hours  until  mail  time} 
and  laughed  a  joyful  little  laugh  all  to  herself  when 
she  heard  her  father  say  to  her  mother  in  the  hall 
below :  "  It's  mail  time,  and  I  must  go  to  the  office 
to-night,  storm  or  no  storm ;  Nettie  will  not  sleep  a 
wink  unless  she  has  her  magazine." 

It  was  her  feast  every  month.  The  members  and 
associates  numbered  hundreds  and  hundreds,  Nettie 
did  riot  know  how  many ;  and  they  were  all  around 
the  world.  Nettie  herself  had  had  a  letter  from  the 
Sandwich  Islands ;  the  magazine  was  sent  to  a 


NETTIE'S  OUTING.  401 

leper  colony,  but  she  would  never  dare  to  write  a 
letter  to  such  a  place.  With  every  fresh  magazine 
she  read  the  object  and  aim  of  the  Society:  — 

"  This  Association  shall  be  called  the  SHUT-IN  SO 
CIETY,  and  shall  consist  of  Members  and  Associates. 
Its  object  shall  be  :  To  relieve  the  weariness  of  the 
sick-room  by  sending  and  receiving  letters  and  other 
tokens  of  remembrance;  to  testify  to  the  love  and 
presence  of  Christ  in  the  hour  of  suffering  and  priva 
tion  ;  to  pray  for  one  another  at  set  times  :  daily, 
at  the  twilight  hour,  and  weekly  on  Tuesday  morn 
ing  at  ten  o'clock ;  to  stimulate  faith,  hope,  patience, 
and  courage  in  fellow-sufferers  by  the  study  and 
presentation  of  Bible  promises. 

"  To  be  a  sufferer,  shut  in  from  the  outside  world, 
constitutes  one  a  proper  candidate  for  membership 
in  this  Society.  All  members  are  requested  to  send 
with  their  application,  if  possible,  the  name  of  their 
pastor  or  their  physician,  or  of  some  Associate  of 
the  Society,  as  introduction;  and  no  name  should 
be  forwarded  for  membership  until  the  individual 
has  been  consulted  and  consent  obtained.  If  able, 
members  are  expected  to  pay  50  cents  yearly  for 
THE  OPEN  WINDOW.  Any  who  are  unable  will 
please  inform  the  Secretary.  ' 


402  GROWING   UP. 

"  As  this  is  not  an  almsgiving  society,  its  members 
are  requested  not  to  apply  for  money  or  other  ma 
terial  aid  to  the  officers,  Associates,  or  other  mem 
bers.  Any  assistance  which  can  be  given  in  the 
way  of  remunerative  work  will  be  cheerfully  ren 
dered. 

"  Members  are  not  to  urge  upon  any  one  in  the 
Society  the  peculiar  belief  of  any  particular  sect  or 
denomination. 

"  Associate  members  are  not  themselves  invalids, 
but,  being  in  tender  sympathy  with  the  suffering, 
volunteer  in  this  ministry  of  love  for  Jesus'  sake." 

Mrs.  Lane  had  been  an  Associate  member  from 
the  time  of  the  organization  of  the  Society  in  1877. 
Jean  Draper  Prince,  coming  to  Nettie's  chamber 
upon  the  Shut-in's  last  birthday,  and  finding  her 
with  a  tableful  and  lapful  of  mail  packages,  had  told 
her  that  Mrs.  Lane  had  given  her  the  biggest  "  out 
ing  "  any  girl  in  the  village  ever  had. 

Nettie  had  fifteen  regular  correspondents,  and 
never  a  week  passed  that  she  was  not  touched  by  an 
appeal  for  letters  and  did  not  write  an  extra  letter 
to  some  one  not  on  her  "  list."  The  wool  slippers  in 
her  work-basket  she  had  finished  to-day  for  a  Shut- 


NETTIE'S  OUTING.  403 

In  birthday  gift  next  month.  Every  night  in  her 
prayer  she  gave  thanks  for  the  blessings  that 
widened  and  brightened  her  life  through  "  the  dear 
Shut-In  Society." 

As  she  sat  reading  her  magazine,  too  deep  in  it  to 
hear  a  sound,  light  feet  ran  up  the  narrow  stairway. 
She  did  not  lift  her  eyes  until  Pet  Draper,  Jean's 
youngest  sister,  pushed  the  door  open. 

"Why,  Pet,"  she  exclaimed.  "Are  you  out  in 
this  storm  ? " 

"No,"  laughed  Pet,  "I  am  in  in  this  storm.  I 
came  to  stay  all  night." 

"I  shouldn't  think  you  would  want  to  go  out 
again  to-night." 

"Oh,  it  isn't  so  bad.  The  snow  is  light.  Joe 
brought  me,"  she  said,  with  sudden  meaning  in  her 
tones. 

"Did  he?"  asked  Nettie,  absently ;" just  let  me 
read  you  this.  '  This  lady  walked  forty  steps  to  go 
out  to  tea  —  for  the  first  time  in  thirty-two  years.' 
I  wonder  if  I  shall  ever  go  out  to  tea." 

"  Nettie,  you  shall  come  to  my  wedding." 

"  Pet ! "  exclaimed  Nettie,  in  delight  and  surprise. 

"Yes.     And  I  came  to  tell  you.     I  told  Joe  to- 


404  GROWING   UP. 

night  I  would  marry  him,"  she  said,  laughing  and 
coloring. 

"I'm  so  glad.  I'm  so  glad,"  repeated  Nettie ;  "he 
is  so  good  and  kind." 

"  He  is  as  good  as  David  Prince  any  day.  Jean 
needn't  put  on  airs  because  he  was  only  a  farm  boy. 
He  is  more  than  that  now.  Mr.  Brush  has  promised 
to  build  a  little  house  just  opposite  his  house,  across 
the  road,  and  Joe  is  not  to  be  paid  wages,  but  to 
take  the  farm  on  shares.  Plenty  of  people  do  that. 
Mr.  Brush  says  he  is  his  right-hand.  Father  will 
furnish  our  house  —  it  will  not  take  much.  Perhaps 
some  day  Joe  will  have  a  farm  of  his  own.  My 
father  had  to  earn  his  farm,  and  that's  why  the 
mortgage  isn't  off  yet.  Joe  has  saved  some  money, 
and  so  have  I.  Agnes  Trembly  will  try  to  give  me 
her  customers  when  she  is  married;  she  always 
speaks  a  good  word  for  me.  I've  made  dresses  for 
Mrs.  Brush  and  Judith  and  Miss  Marion." 

"  And  wrappers  for  me,"  said  Nettie. 

"Yes,  I  shall  always  have  you  to  make  my 
fortune." 

"  That  is  splendid,  and  I  am  so  glad.  But  here's 
my  letter  in  the  Open  Window  :  do  let  me  read  it 
to. you."  •  •»  •  • 


NETTIE'S   OUTING.  405 

Pet  laughed,  and  listened.  She  believed  Nettie 
liked  the  Shut-In  Society  as  well  as  having  a  new 
little  house  and  a  husband.  Nettie  would  have  told 
her  she  liked  it  better. 

While  Pet  slept  her  happy,  healthful  sleep  that 
night,  after  her  somewhat  hurried  two  minutes  of 
kneeling  to  pray,  Nettie  lay  peacefully  awake  re 
membering  the  "requests  for  prayer"  in  her  Open 
Window. 

"  Our  prayers  are  earnestly  asked  for  an  aged 
man,  who  has  lost  the  home  of  his  childhood,  that 
he  may  feel  that  God  does  it  for  the  best  and  may 
love  God.  Also  a  lady  whose  life  is  very  sad,  that 
she  may  look  up  to  God  and  rejoice  in  him.  ": 

"Pray  for  one  who  fears  blindness,  that  if  possible 
it  may  be  averted,  but  if  it  must  be,  in  the  midst  of 
darkness  there  may  be  the  light  of  God's  counte 
nance. 

"Let  us  remember  the  sorrowing  hearts  from  whom 
sisters  or  parents  or  children  have  been  taken  by 
death. 

"  One  long  a  sufferer  from  disease,  asks  us  to  pray 
that  if  it  be  God's  will  she  may  be  healed. 

"One  who  feels  that  answers  to  our  prayers  have 


406  GROWING   UP. 

been  granted,  asks  that  we  still  pray  that  the  use 
of  his  limbs  may  be  restored  and  that  a  beloved 
mother  may  long  be  spared  to  him. 

"  One  of  our  number  writes, '  Pray  that  father  and 
the  children  may  be  saved  and  that  mother  and  I 
love  God  better.'  It  is  hard  sometimes  for  Chris 
tians  so  to  live  that  unconverted  members  of  the 
family  be  drawn  by  their  lives  toward  Christ.  This 
mother  and  daughter  truly  need  our  prayers. 

"  One  of  our  band  is  trying  to  build  up  a  church  in 
a  lonely  spot.  She  asks  us  to  pray  God's  help  for 
her." 

Nettie's  outing  went  out  farther  than  anyone 
knew.  She  could  tell  about  her  gifts  and  her  letters, 
but  never  about  her  intercession. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  planned,  "  if  I  couldn't  have  a 
little  Fair ;  all  the  girls  would  do  something ;  I  have 
so  little  money  to  give.  I  couldn't  go  —  unless  I 
have  it  in  my  room." 

She  wanted  to  awaken  Pet  to  talk  about  it,  but 
that  would  be  selfish,  and  then  —  Pet  might  be 
cross. 

She  fell  asleep  beside  the  strong  young  girl  who 
lent  her  life  from  her  own  vitality ;  the  full,  breath- 


NETTIE'S  OUTING.  407 

ing  lips,  the  warm  cheeks,  the  head  with  its  masses 
of  auburn  hair,  the  touch  of  the  hand  upon  her  own 
were  all  life  giving.  Nettie  loved  girls;  the  girls 
who  were  what  she  might  have  been. 

Awaking  out  of  restless  sleep,  she  remembered 
the  Midnight  Circle  to  pray  for  the  sleepless,  and 
prayed :  "  Father,  give  them  all  sleep,  if  thou  wilt ; 
but,  if  thy  will  be  not  so,  give  them  all  something 
better  than  sleep." 


408  GROWING  UP. 


XXXIV. 

"  SENSATIONS." 

"Being  fruitful  in  every  good  work,  and  increasing  in  the 
knowledge  of  God." 

THIS  same  March  night  in  the  snow-storm  the 
Bensalem  preacher  sat  alone  in  his  study  among 
his  books,  with  his  thoughts  among  his  people 
whom  he  loved. 

Marion  brought  her  work-basket  and  took  her 
seat  on  the  other  side  of  the  lamp.  The  evening's 
mail  was  upon  the  table. 

"  What  do  the  letters  bring  to-night,  Roger  ? "  she 
inquired  in  the  tone  of  one  hungry  for  news. 

"  Enough  to  stir  us  up  for  one  while." 

"  Good.  I  am  always  ready  to  be  stirred  up.  I 
have  been  stagnant  all  day." 

"  What  a  girl  you  are  for  wanting  new  sensations." 

"  Aren't  you  always  after  them  ? " 

"  No,  they  are  always  after  me." 


"SENSATIONS."  409 

"  Which  one  is  after  you  now  ?  " 

"  Four." 

"  Four  letters,"  she  said,  eagerly. 

"  There  are  more  than  four  letters.  But  four  have 
sensations." 

"Do  give  me  half  a  sensation." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  John  writing  me  that  he 
is  tired  of  medicine,  it  is  too  big  a  pull ;  he  wants 
me  to  break  it  to  father,  and  ask  him  to  take  him 
into  the  business." 

"  Father  will  be  glad  enough ;  but  he  will  not  like 
John  to  give  up  for  such  a  reason." 

"  I  imagine  that  girl  is  at  the  bottom  of  it.  Girls 
are  usually  at  the  bottom  of  things.  Her  father 
will  be  willing  for  the  marriage  if  John  goes  into 
business ;  he  did  not  relish  the  idea  of  a  struggling 
professional  man." 

"  Lottie  Kindare  is  not  the  girl  to  relish  a  long 
engagement,  either.  I  am  not  surprised  at  that 
sensation." 

"You  will  not  be  surprised  that  Kichard  King 
has  resigned  and  accepted  a  call  to  the  Summer 
Avenue  church." 

"  Oh,  no ;  father  said  they  were  determined  to 
have  him." 


410  GROWING   UP. 

"  And  he's  to  be  married,  too." 

"  I  cannot  be  surprised  at  that.  That  is  not  a 
sensation.  I  knew  he  was  taken  with  Agnes 
Trembly  that  first  time  he  met  her  here.  She  did 
look  as  sweet  as  a  violet.  She  has  grown  like  a 
flower  this  last  year." 

"Thanks  to  you.  You  have  been  a  wonderful 
help  to  her.  You  took  her  into  a  new  world." 

"  That  is  what  I  tried  to  do.  She  was  ready  for 
it.  And  to  think  our  little  country  dressmaker 
will  be  the  wife  of  the  Summer  Avenue  minister." 

"  Oh,  she'll  take  to  it.     It  is  in  her." 

"  Yes ;  she  has  tact." 

"  And  natural  ability." 

"  That  is  only  —  how  many  sensations  ? " 

"  You  saw  that  one  letter  was  from  Don.  He  is 
coming  home  next  month.  Eeally,  this  time." 

"  His  wife  has  been  dead  —  " 

"A  year.  Their  married  life  was  very  short. 
All  the  happier  because  it  was  short.  She  has  be 
come  a  blessed  memory  to  him.  She  was  very  sweet 
the  last  month  of  her  life.  He  loved  her  then  as  he 
had  never  loved  her  before.  She  told  him  that  she 
dlQ  not  love  him  when  she  married  him ;  that  she 


"  SENS  A  TIONS."  41 1 

married  him  to  get  away  from  her  uncle's  home. 
That  last  month  was  the  one  sweet  drop  in  his 
bitter  cup." 

"  Eoger,  you  knew  his  story  all  the  time." 

"From  the  very  first.  He  was  not  proud  with 
me.  He  is  so  much  like  a  woman  that  he  had  to 
tell  somebody." 

"That  proves  how  little  you  know  of  women/' 
was  the  woman's  unspoken  comment. 

"  Now,  for  my  last  sensation.  The  First  Church 
in  Dunellen  asks  if  I  will  accept  a  call." 

"  0,  Eoger,"  with  a  mingling  of  sensations. 

"  It  is  '  0,  Eoger,'  I  am  torn  in  two." 

"  One  Eoger  for  Bensalem  and  one  for  Dunellen." 

"  I  have  known  for  some  time  that  I  might  have 
the  call.  Dear  old  Dr.  Kent  has  resigned.  He  told 
me  he  wanted  to  throw  his  mantle  over  me." 

"The  salary  is  twenty-five  hundred  and  parson 
age,"  remarked  Marion. 

"  I  suppose  I  am  not  above  the  consideration  of 
salary.  I  cannot  work  at  tent  making." 

"  Bensalem  has  had  the  best  of  you." 

"  Well,  I  hope  not  —  at  my  age." 

"Bensalem  has  been  preparation  for  Dunellen, 
then,"  she  amended. 


412  GROWING   UP. 

"  What  do  you  advise  ? " 

"  I  do  not  advise  a  man  when  his  mind  is  made 
up." 

"  Bensalem  has  been  good  for  us." 

"And  we  have  not  been  so  bad  for  Bensalem. 
Seven  is  the  perfect  number.  We  have  been  here 
seven  years.  What  will  Judith  say  ? " 

"  I  think  I  will  go  and  see,"  he  said,  rising. 

"  To-night  ?     In  the  storm  ? " 

"  It  will  be  the  first  storm  I  ever  was  afraid  of." 

Left  alone,  Marion  forgot  her  work.  It  was  not 
only  Dunellen.  He  would  forget  to  ask  Judith 
about  Dunellen. 

Judith  was  sitting  before  the  fire  on  the  hearth 
with  a  book  when  Roger  stamped  up  on  the  piazza. 
Aunt  Affy,  mixing 'bread  at  the  kitchen  table,  heard 
the  gate  swing  to,  and  called  to  Uncle  Cephas  that 
somebody  must  want  shelter  for  the  night  to  come 
out  in  such  a  storm.  Uncle  Cephas  dropped  his 
newspaper  and  opened  the  sitting-room  door  that  led 
to  the  piazza. 

"  Well,  the  minister,  of  all  things ! " 

"  Sakes  alive ! "  exclaimed  Aunt  Affy,  rubbing  the 
flour  off  her  hands. 


"  8RN8ATIQN8."  413 

Judith  sat  still  by  the  fire. 

"  I  had  to  come  to  see  my  elder,"  explained  Roger 

"Oh,  church  business,"  said  Aunt  Affy  enlightened 

"  Young  folks  never  mind  a  storm,"  remarked  the 
elder.  "  Shake  off  your  snow,  and  come  to  the  fire." 

As  Judith  arose  with  her  book  Roger  detained  her ; 
"  This  isn't  a  secret  session,  Judith.  You  and  Aunt 
Affy  must  help  me  decide  about  Dunellen." 

"  Dunellen  !  Has  it  come  to  that  ? "  inquired  the 
elder. 

"  Dunellen  has  come  to  me.  The  First  Church 
has  come  to  me." 

"  I  might  have  known  what  would  come  of  your 
exchanging  so  often,"  remarked  Uncle  Cephas,  dis 
contentedly. 

"I  thought  you  did  it  to  rest  Dr.  Kent,"  re 
proached  Aunt  Affy. 

"I  did.     It  did  rest  him." 

"  And  you  got  ensnared  yourself.  -Roger  Kenney, 
are  you  going  there  for  the  money  ? "  asked  Uncle 
Cephas,  with  solemnity. 

"You  know  better  than  that,"  replied  Roger, 
angrily. 

"  The  heart  of  man  is  deceitful.     There's  a  great 


414  GROWING   UP. 

difference  in  the  salary.  But  there's  a  difference  in 
the  man.  You've  grown  some  since  you  came  here 
seven  years  ago." 

" Uncle  Cephas,  I  think  you  are  wicked"  protested 
Judith,  with  tearful  vehemence.  "If  you  don't 
know  Roger  better  than  that  you  do  not  know  him 
at  all" 

"  You  don't  know  men,"  insisted  the  elder  of  the 
Bensalem  church.  "  The  heart  is  deceitful  and  des 
perately  wicked." 

"  Judith  knows  mine  is  not,"  laughed  Roger. 

"Judith,  don't  fly  at  me  and  eat  me  up,"  said 
Uncle  Cephas ;  "  I  know  this  young  man  as  well  as 
most  folks.  He  doesn't  love  money  enough.  He 
may  be  going  for  something,  but  it  isn't  for  money." 

"He  is  going  for  more  young  folks,"  said  Aunt 
Affy,  "and  men  about  his  own  age.  I'm  willing, 
but  it's  terrible  hard." 

Judith  turned  to  the  fire  again. 

"  Come,  sit  down  and  let's  talk  it  over,"  said  Uncle 
Cephas,  in  a  pacified  tone";  "  I  won't  pull  the  wrong 
way  if  it's  best." 

An  hour  afterward  Aunt  Affy  called  her  husband 
out  into  the  kitchen. 


"  SENSATIONS."  415 

"Cephas,"  she  whispered,   "don't  you  know  he 
wants  to  ask  Judith  what  she  thinks  ? " 

"  She  isn't  a  member  of  the  session,"  replied  Uncle 
Cephas,  with  dignity. 

"  She  is  a  member  of  his  session,"  said  wise  Aunt 
Affy. 

After  this,  what  more  would  you  know  of  Judith's 
growing  up  ? 

She  was  married  on  her  twentieth  birthday,  and 
her  Cousin  Don  was  at  the  wedding.  She  was 
married  in  the  Bensalem  church;  Eichard  King 
performed  the  ceremony.  Eoger  asked  if  she  would 
have  dear  old  Dr.  Kent,  but  in  memory  of  that 
afternoon  at  Meadow  Centre,  she  chose  Eichard 
King. 

"  Don,  it  wouldn't  have  been  perfect  without  you," 
she  whispered  when  her  Cousin  Don  kissed  her. 

The  next  year  Judith  finished  her  book  of  chil 
dren's  stories  which  she  wished  to  take  to  Heaven 
to  show  her  mother. 

Marion  was  the  maiden  aunt  at  the  Dunellen 
parsonage.  Don  Mackenzie  was  everybody's  good 
friend, 


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Mixed  Pickles.    A  Story  for  Girls.    By  MBS.  E.  M. 

FIELD.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"It  Is,  In  its  way,  a  Uttle  classic,  of  which  the  real  beanty  and  pathos 
can  hardly  be  appreciated  by  young  people.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say 
of  the  story  that  it  is  perfect  of  its  kind." — Good  Literature. 

Miss  Mouse   and  Her  Boys.    A  Story  for  Girls.    By 

MBS.  MOLESWOBTH.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  ceuts. 
"Mrs.  Molesworth's  books  are  cheery,  wholesome,  and  particularly  weh 
adapted  to  refined  life.     It  is  safe  to  add  that  she  is  the  best  English  prose 
writer  for  children.     A  new   volume   from   Mrs.   Molesworth  Is  always  a 
treat." — Thf>  Beacon. 

Gilly  Flower.    A  Story   for   Girls.    By  the  author  of 

44  Miss  Toosey's  Mission."       12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"Jill  Is  a  little  guardian  angel  to  three  lively  brothers  who  tease  an6 
play  with  her.  .  .  .  Ear  unconscious  goodness  brings  right  thoughts 
and  resolvei  to  several  persons  who  come  into  contact  with  her.  There  is 
no  goodiness  in  this  tale,  bat  its  influence  is  of  the  best  kind." — Literary 
World. 

The  Chaplet  of  Pearls ;  or,  The  White  and  Black  Ribau- 

mont.    By  CHABLOTTE  M.  YONOE.    I2mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"Pull  of  spirit  and  life,  so  well  sustained  throughout  that  grown-up 
readers  may  enjoy  it  as  much  as  children.  It  is  one  of  the  best  Pooks  of 
the  season." — Guardian. 

Naughty  Miss  Bunny :     Her  Tricks  and  Troubles     By 

CLARA  MOLHOLLAND.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"The  naughty  child  Is  positively  delightful.     Papas  should  not  OD»lt  the 
book  from  their  list  of  Juvenile  presents." — Land  and  Water. 

Megfs   Friend.     By   ALICE    CORKRAN.    12mo,   cloth, 

illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"One  of  Miss  Corkran's  charming  books  for  girls,  narrated  In  that  simple 
and  picturesque  style  which  marks  the  authoress  as  one  of  the  first  among 
writers  for  young  people." — The  Spectator. 

Averil.    By  ROSA  N.  CAREY.     12mo,  cloth,  illustrated. 

price  $1.00. 

"A  charming  story  for  young  folks.  Averll  Is  a  delightful  creature — 
piquant,  tender,  and  true — and  her  varying  fortunes  are  perfectly  real 
istic.  "—World. 

Aunt  Diana.    By  ROSA  N.  CAREY.    12mo,  cloth,  illus 
trated,  price  $1.00. 

"An  excellent  story,  the  Interest  being  sustained  from  first  to  last. 
This  Is,  h^th  in  its  intention  and  the  way  the  story  Is  told,  one  of  the 
best  bookt  of  its  kind  which  has  come  before  us  this  year." — Saturday 
Raview. 

Little  Sunshine's  Holiday:     A  Picture  from  Life.     By 

Itfres  MtTLOCK.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"Tbia  is   i   pretty  narrative  of  child  life,   describing  the  simple  dolnga 
and  sayingh  of  a  very  charming  and   rather  precocious  child.     This  is  a 
doligbtfll  b>w>k  for  young  people." — Gazette. 

all  bookseller*,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
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A.  L.  HURT'S  BOOKS  FOR  YOTJNG  PEOPLE. 


BOOKS  FOR  GIRLS. 

Esther's  Charge.  A  Story  for  Girls.  By  ELLEN  EVERETT 

GREEN.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"...  This  is  a  story  showing  in  a  charming  way  how  one  little 
jfirl's  Jealousy  and  bad  temper  were  conquered;  one  of  the  best,  most 
suggestive  and  improving  of  the  Christmas  Juveniles." — New  York  Trib 
une. 

Fairy  Land   of   Science.    By  ARABELLA  B.  BUCKLEY. 

12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"We  can  highly  recommend  it;  not  only  for  the  valuable  information 
It  gives  on  the  special  subjects  to  which  it  is  dedicated,  but  also  as  a 
book  teaching  natural  sciences  in  an  interesting  way.  A  fascinating 
little  volume,  which  will  make  friends  in  every  household  in  which  then 
are  children." — Daily  News. 

Merle's  Crusade.    By  EOSA  N.  CAREY.     12mo,   cloth, 

illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"Among  the  books  for  young  people  we  have  seen  nothing  more  unique 
than  this  book.  Like  all  of  this  author's  stories  it  will  please  young  read 
ers  by  the  very  attractive  and  charming  style  in  which  it  is  written." — 
Journal. 

Birdie:    A   Tale  of   Child  Life.    By  H.  L.  CHILDE- 

PEMBERTON.    12m o,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"The  story  Is  quaint  and  simple,  but  there  is  a  freshness  about  it 
that  makes  one  hear  again  the  ringing  laugh  and  the  cheery  shout  of  chil 
dren  at  play  which  charmed  his  earlier  years." — New  York  Express. 

The  Days  of  Bruce:     A  Story  from  Scottish  History. 

By  GRACE  AGUILAR.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 
"There  is  a  delightful  freshness,  sincerity  and  vivacity  about  all  of  Grace 
Aguilar's  stories  which  cannot  fail  to  win  the  interest  and  admiration  of 
every  lover  of  good  reading." — Boston  Beacon. 

Three  Bright  Girls :     A  Story  of  Chance  and  Mischance. 

By  ANNIE  E.  ARMSTRONG.  12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 
"The  obarm  of  the  story  lies  in  the  cheery  helpfulness  of  spirit  devel 
oped  in  the  girls  by  their  changed  circumstances;  while  the  author  finds 
a  pleasant  ending  to  all  their  happy  makeshifts.  The  story  Is  charmingly 
told,  and  the  book  can  be  warmly  recommended  as  a  present  for  girls." — 
Standard. 

Giannetta :    A  Girl's  Story  of  Herself.     By  EOSA  MUL- 

HOLLAND.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"Extremely  well  told  and  full  of  interest.  Giannetta  is  a  true  heroine — 
warm-hearted,  self-sacrificing,  and,  as  all  good  women  nowadays  are, 
largely  touched  with  enthusiasm  of  humanity.  The  illustrations  are  un 
usually  good.  One  of  the  most  attractive  gift  books  of  the  season." — Cns. 
Academy. 

Margery    Merton's    Girlhood.    By    ALICE    CORKRAN. 

I2mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  {1.00. 

"The  experiences  of  an  orphan  girl  who  in  infancy  is  left  by  her 
father  to  the  care  of  an  elderly  aunt  residing  near  Paris.  The  accounts 
of  the  various  persons  who  have  an  after  intluence  on  the  story  are  sin 
gularly  vivid.  There  is  a  subtle  attraction  about  the  book  which  will  make 
it  a  great  favorite  with  thoughtful  girls." — Saturday  Keview. 


I'ur  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  tie 
publisher,  A.  *~   wwB'S,  6**fc  Duane  Street,  New  York. 


f          A.  L.  DUET'S  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE!. 


BOOKS  FOR  GIRLS. 

Under  False  Colors:     A  Story  from  Two  Girls'  Lives. 

By  SARAH  DOUDNKY.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 
"Sarah  Doudney  haa  no  superior  as  a  writer  of  high-toned  stories — pure 
in  style,  original  in  conception,  and  with  skillfully  wrought  out  plots;  but 
we  have  seen  nothing  equal  In  dramatic  energy  to  this  book." — Christian 
Leader.  \ 

Down  the  Snow  Stairs;  or,  From  Good-night  to  Good- 
morning.    By  ALICE  CORKRAN.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"Among  all  the  Christmas  volumes  which  the  year  has  brought  to  our 
table  this  one  stands  out  facile  princeps — a  gem  of  the  first  water,  bearing 
upon  every  one  of  its  pages  the  signet  mark  of  genius.     .     .     .     All  is  told 
with  such  simplicity  and  perfect  naturalness  that  the  dream  appears  to  be 
a    solid    reality.     It    is    indeed    a    Little    Pilgrim's    Progress." — Christian 
Leader. 

The  Tapestry  Room:     A  Child's  Romance.    By  MRS. 

MOLESWORTH.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"Mrs.    Molesworth   is   a   charming   painter  of   the   nature   and   ways  of 
children;     and    she    has    done    good    service    in    giving    us    this    charming 
Juvenile  which  will  delight  the  young  people." — Athenaeum,  London. 

Little  Miss  Peggy:     Only  a  Nursery  Story.     By  MRS. 

MOLBSWORTH.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

Mrs.  Molesworth's  children  are  finished  studies.  A  Joyous  earnest  spirit 
pervades  her  work,  and  her  sympathy  is  unbounded.  She  loves  them 
with  her  whole  heart,  while  she  lays  bare  their  little  minds,  and  expresses 
their  foibles,  their  faults,  their  virtues,  their  inward  struggles,  their 
conception  of  duty,  and  their  instinctive  knowledge  of  the  right  and  wrong 
of  things.  She  knows  their  characters,  she  understands  their  wants, 
and  she  desires  to  help  them. 

Polly:     A    New   Fashioned    Girl.     By   L.  T.  MEADE. 

12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

Few  authors  have  achieved  a  popularity  equal  to  Mrs.  Meade  as  a 
writer  of  stories  for  young  girls.  Her  characters  are  living  beings  of 
flesh  and  blood,  not  lay  figures  of  conventional  type.  Into  the  trials 
and  crosses,  and  everyday  experiences,  the  reader  enters  at  once  with  zest 
and  hearty  sympathy.  While  Mrs.  Meade  always  writes  with  a  high 
moral  purpose,  her  lessons  of  life,  purity  and  nobility  of  character  are 
rather  inculcated  by  example  than  intruded  as  sermons. 

One  of  a  Covey.     By  the    author  of  "Miss    Toose/s 

Mission."    13mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents.  * 

"Pull  of  spirit  and  life,  so  well  sustained  throughout  that  grown-up 
readers  may  enjoy  it  as  much  as  children.  This  'Covey'  consists  of  the 
twelve  children  of  a  hard-pressed  Dr.  Partridge  out  of  which  is  chosen  a 
little  girl  to  be  adopted  by  n  spoiled,  fine  lady.  We  have  rarely  read 
a  story  for  boys  and  girls  with  greater  pleasure.  One  of  the  chief  char 
acters  would  not  have  disgraced  Dickens'  pen." — Literary  World. 

The  Little  Princess  of  Tower  Hill.    By  L.  T.  MEADE. 

12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"This  is  one  of  the  prettiest  boots  for  children  published,  as  pretty 
as  a  pond-lily,  and  quite  as  fragrant.  Nothing  could  be  imagined  more 
attractive  to  young  people  than  such  a  combination  of  fresh  papes  and 
fair  pictures;  and  while  children  will  rejoice  over  it — which  is  much 
better  than  crying  for  it — it  is  a  book  that  can  be  read  with  pleasure 
eren  by  older  boys  and  girls." — Boston  Advertiser. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
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A.  L.  BUST'S  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE. 


BOOKS  FOR  GIRLS. 

Rosy.     By  MRS.  MOLESWORTH.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated, 

price  75  cents, 

Mrs.  Molesworth,  considering  the  quality  and  quantity  of  her  labors, 
is  the  best  story-teller  for  children  England  has  yet  known. 

"This  is  a  very  pretty  story.  The  writer  -knows  children,  and  their 
ways  well.  The  illustrations  are  exceedingly  well  drawn." — Spectator. 

Esther :     A  Book  for  Girls.    By  KOSA  N.  CAREY.    12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"She  inspires  her  readers  simply  by  bringing  them  in  contact  with  the 
characters,  who  are  in  themselves  inspiring.  Her  simple  stories  are  woven 
in  order  to  give  her  an  opportunity  to  describe  her  characters  by  their  own 
conduct  in  seasons  of  trial." — Chicago  Times. 

Sweet  Content.     By  MRS.  MOLESWORTH.     12mo,  cloth, 

illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"It  seems  to  me  not  at  all  easier  to  draw  a  lifelike  child  than  to  draw 
a  lifelike  man  or  woman:  Shakespeare  and  Webster  were  the  only  two 
men  of  their  age  who  could  do  it  with  perfect  delicacy  and  success. 
Our  own  age  is  more  fortunate,  on  this  single  score  at  least,  having  a 
Jarger  and  far  nobler  proportion  of  female  writers;  among  whom,  since 
the  death  of  George  Eliot,  there  is  none  left  whose  touch  is  so  exquisite 
and  masterly,  whose  love  is  so  thoroughly  according  to  knowledge,  whose 
bright  and  sweet  invention  is  so  fruitful,  so  truthful,  or  so  delightful  SM 
Mrs.  Molesworth's." — A.  C.  Swinbourne. 

Honor  Bright ;  or,  The  Four-Leaved  Shamrock.     By  the 

author  of  "Miss  Toosey's  Mission."    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1  00. 
"It   requires   a   special   talent   to   describe   the   sayings   and   doings   of 
children,  and  the  author  of  'Honor  Bright,"  'One  of  a  Covey,'  possesses  that 
talent  in  no  small  degree.     A  cheery,   sensible,   and  healthy  tale." — The 
Times. 

The  Cuckoo  Clock.     By  MRS.   MOLESWORTH.     12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"A  beautiful  little  story.  It  will  be  read  with  delight  by  every  child 
into  whose  hands  it  is  placed.  .  .  .  The  author  deserves  all  the  praise 
that  has  been,  is,  and  will  be  bestowed  on  'The  Cuckoo  Clock.'  Children's 
stories  are  plentiful,  but  one  like  this  is  not  to  be  met  with  every  day." — 
Fall  Mail  Gazette. 

The  Adventures  of  a  Brownie.     As  Told  to  my  Child. 

By  Miss  MULOCK.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"The  author  of  this  delightful  little  book  leaves  it  in  donbt  all  through 
Whether  there  actually  Is  such  a  creature  in  existence  as  a  Brownie,  but 
she  makes  us  hope  that  there  might  be." — Chicago  Standard. 

Only  a  Girl:     A  Tale  of  Brittany.     From  the  French 

by  C.  A.  JONES.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"We  can  thoroughly  recommend  this  brightly  written  and  homely  nar 
rative."— Saturday  Review. 

little   Rosebud;  or,  Things  Will   Take   a   Turn.     By 

BEATRICE  HARRADEN.    12ino,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"A  most  delightful  little  book.     .     .     .     Miss  Harraden  Is  so  bright,  so 
healthy,  and  so  natural  withal  that  the  book  ought,  as  a  matter  of  duty, 
to  be  added  to  every   girl's  library   in   the   land."— Boston   Transcript. 

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"     •,  A.  L.   BUKT,  62-58  Duane  Street.  New  Tor* 


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BOOKS  FOR  GIRLS. 

Girl  Neighbors ;  or,  The  Old  Fashion  and  the  New.     By 

SARAH  TYTLER.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"One  of  the  most  effective  and  quietly  humorous  of  Miss  Ty tier's  stories. 
'Girl  Neighbors'  is  a  pleasant  comedy,  not  so  much  of  errors  as  of  preju 
dices  (rot  rid  of,  very  healthy,  very  agreeable,  and  very  well  written." — 
Spectator. 

The  Little  Lame  Prince  and  His  Traveling  Cloak.    By 

Miss  MULOCK.    12mo,  cloth,  illusti  a,tt-d,  price  75  cents. 

"No  sweeter — that  is  the  proper  word — Christmas  story  for  the  little 
folks  could  easily  be  found,  and  it  is  as  delightful  for  older  readers  as 
well.  There  is  a  moral  to  it  which  the  reader  can  find  out  for  himself,  if 
he  chooses  to  think." — Cleveland  Herald. 

Little  Miss  Joy.     By  EMMA  MARSHALL.     12mo,  cloth, 

illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"A  very  pleasant  and  instructive  story,  told  by  a  very  charming  writer 
in  such  an  attractive  way  as  to  win  favor  among  its  young  readers.  The 
illustrations  add  to  the  beauty  of  the  book." — Utica  Herald. 

The  House  that  Grew.    A  Girl's  Story.    By  MRS.  MOLES- 
WORTH.    18mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"This  is  a  very  pretty  story  of  English  life.     Mrs.   Moleswortb  is  one 

of  the   most   popular  and   charming  of   English   story-writers   for  children. 

Her   child    characters    are    true    to    life,    always   natural    and    attractive, 

and  her  stories  are  wholesome  and  interesting." — Indianapolis  Journal. 

The   House   of   Surprises.    By   L.   T.  MEADE.     12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"A  charming  tale  of  charming  children,  who  are  naughty  enough  to  be 
interesting,  and  natural  enough  to  be  lovable;  and  very  prettily  their  story 
is  told.  The  quaintest  yet  most  natural  stories  of  child  life.  Simply 
delightful."— Vanity  Fair. 

The  Jolly  Ten:  and  their  Year  of  Stories.     By  AGNES 

CARR  SAGE.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

The  story  of  a  band  of  cousins  who  were  accustomed  to  meet  at  the 
"Pinery,"  with  "Aunt  Rosy."  At  her  fireside  they  play  merry  games, 
have  suppers  flavored  with  innocent  fun,  and  listen  to  stories — each  with 
Its  lesson  calculated  to  make  the  ten  not  less  jolly,  but  quickly  re 
sponsive  to  the  calls  of  duty  and  to  the  needs  of  others. 

Little  Miss  Dorothy.     The  Wonderful  Adventures  of 

Two  Little  People.    By  MARTHA  JAMES.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75c. 

"This  is  a  charming  little  Juvenile  story  from  the  pen  of  Mrs.  James, 

detailing   the   various   adventures   of   a   couple   of   young   children.     Their 

many    adventures    are    told    in    a    charming    manner,    and    the    book    will 

please  young  girls  and  boys." — Montreal  Star. 

Pen's   Venture.      A    Story   for    Girls.     By   ELVIRTOST 

"WRIGHT.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

Something  Pen  saw  in  the  condition  of  the  cash  giris  in  a  certain  store 
gave  her  a  thought;  the  thought  became  a  plan;  the  plan  became  a  ven 
ture — Pen's  venture.  It  is  amusing,  touching,  and  instructive  to  read  about 

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A.  L.  BURIES  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE.          9 


FAIRY  BOOKS. 

The  Blue  Fairy  Book.    Edited  by  ANDREW  LANG.    Pro 
fusely  illustrated,  12mo,  cloth,  price  $1.00. 
"The   tales   are   simply   delightful.     No   amount  of   description   can   do 

them  justice.     The  only  way  is  to  read  the  book  through  from  cover  to 

cover." — Book  Review. 

The  Green  Fairy  Book.    Edited  by  ANDREW  LANG. 

Profusely  illustrated,  12ruo,  cloth,  price  $1.00. 

"The  most  delightful  book  of  fairy  tales,  taking  form  and  contents  to 
gether,  ever  presented  to  children." — E.  S.  Eartland,  in  Folk-Lore. 

The  Yellow  Fairy  Book.    Edited  by  ANDREW  LANG. 

Profusely  illustrated,  12mo,  cloth,  price  $1.00. 

"As  a  collection  of  fairy  tales  to  delight  children  of  all  ages,  It  rankt 
second  to  none." — Daily  Graphic. 

The  Red  Fairy  Book.    Edited  by  ANDREW  LANG.    Pro 
fusely  illustrated,  12mo,  cloth,  price  J51.CO. 
"A  gift-book  that  will  charm  any  child,   and  all  older  folk,  who  have 

been  fortunate  enough  to  retain  their  taste  for  the  old  nursery  stories. "— 

Literary  World. 

Celtic  Fairy  Tales.    Edited  by  JOSEPH  JACOBS.     12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  81.00. 

"A  stock  of  delightful  little  narratives  gathered  chiefly  from  the  Celtic- 
speaking  peasants  of  Ireland.  A  perfectly  lovely  book.  And  oh!  the 
wonderful  pictures  inside.  Get  this  book  if  you  can;  It  is  capital,  all 
through."— Pall  Mall  Budget. 

English  Fairy  Tales.     Edited  by  JOSEPH  JACOBS.  12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"The  tales  are  -simply  delightful.  No  amount  of  description  can  do 
them  Justice.  Tht  ouly  way  is  to  read  the  book  through  from  cover  to 
cover.  The  boolr  it.  intended  to  correspond  to  'Grimm's  Fairy  Tales,* 
and  it  must  be  flowed  that  its  pages  fairly  rival  in  interest  those  of 
that  well-known  ct-pository  of  folk-lore." — Morning  Herald. 

Indian  Fairy  1'ales.    Edited  by  JOSEPH  JACOBS.    12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"Mr.  Jacobs  brings  home  to  us  In  a  clear  and  intelligible  manner  the 
enormous  influence  which  'Indian  Fairy  Tales'  have  had  upon  European 
literature  of  the  kind.  The  present  combination  will  be  welcomed  not 
alone  by  the  little  ones  for  whom  it  is  specially  combined,  but  also  by 
children  of  larger  growth  and  added  years." — Daily  Telegraph. 

Household  Fairy  Tales.    By  the  BROTHERS   GRIMM. 

12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"As  a  collection  of  fairy  tales  to  delight  children  of  all  ages  this 
work  ranks  second  to  none." — Daily  Graphic. 

Fairy  Tales  and  Stories.    By  HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDER 
SEN.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 
"If  I  were  askci  to  select  a  child's  library  I  should  name  these  three 

volumes,    'English,'   'Celtic,'   and   'Indian   Fairy  Tales,'  with  Grimm  and 

Hans  Andersen's  Fairy  Tales." — Independent. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  oi>  receipt  of  price  by  tie 
publisher,  A.  T,.  BTTBT,  52-58  Duana  Street.  New  York. 


10     A.  L.  BURT'S  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE. 


FAIRY  BOOKS. 

Popular  Fairy  Tales.    By  the  BROTHERS  GRIMM.   12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"From  first  to  last,  almost  without  exception,  these  stories  are  delight 
ful." — Athenajum. 

Icelandic  Fairy  Tales.    By  A.  W.  HALL.    12mo,  cloth, 

Illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"The  most  delightful  book  of  fairy  tales,  taking  form  and  contents  to 
gether,  ever  presented  tj  children.  The  whole  collection  Is  dramatic  and 
humorous.  A  more  desirable  child's  book  has  not  been  seen  for  many  a 
day." — Daily  News. 

Fairy  Tales  From  the  Far  North.     (Norwegian.)     By 

P.  C.  ASBJORNSEN.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 
"If  we  were  asked  what  present  would  make  a  child  happiest  at  Christ 
mastide  we  think  we  could  with  a  clear  conscience  point  to  Mr.  Jacobs1 
book.     It  is  a  dainty  and  an  interesting  volume." — Notes  and  Queries. 

Cossack   Fairy   Tales.    By  K.    NISBET   BAIN.     12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"A  really  valuable  and  curious  selection  which  will  be  welcomed  by 
readers  of  all  ages.  .  .  .  The  illustrations  by  Mr.  Batten  are  often 
clever  and  irresistibly  humorous.  A  delight  alike  to  the  young  people 
and  their  elders." — Globe. 

The  Golden  Fairy  Book.   By  VARIOUS  AUTHORS.    12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"The  most  delightful  book  of  Its  kind  that  has  come  In  our  way  for 
many  a  day.  It  is  brimful  of  pretty  stories.  Retold  In  a  truly  deightfol 
manner. " — Graphic. 

The  Silver  Fairy  Book.    By  VARIOUS  AUTHORS.    12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"The  book  Is  Intended  to  correspond  to  'Grimm's  Fairy  Tales,'  and  It 
must  be  allowed  that  Its  pages  fairly  rival  in  Interest  those  of  the  well- 
known  repository  of  folk-lore.  It  Is  a  most  delightful  volume  of  fairy 
tales. ' ' — Courier. 

The  Brownies,  and  Other  Stories.   By  JULIANA  HORATIA 

EWTNQ.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"Like  all  the  books  she  has  written  this  one  Is  very  charming,  and 
10  worth  more  in  the  bands  of  a  child  than  a  score  of  other  stories  of  a 
more  sensational  character." — Christian  at  Work. 

The  Hunting  of  the  Snark.    An  Agony  in  Eight  Fits. 

By  LEWIS  CARROLL,  author  of  "Alice  In  Wonderland."    12mo,  cloth,  illus 
trated,  price  75  cents. 
"This  glorious  piece  of  nonsense.    .    .    .    Everybody  onght  to  read  It 

— nearly  everybody  will — and  all  who  deserve  the  treat  will  scream  with 

laughter. ' ' — Graphic. 

loh  Lie-By-the-fire,  and  Other  Tales.    By  JULIANA 

HORATIO  EWTNO.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"Mrs.  Ewinjf  has  written  as  good  a  story  as  hpr  'Brownies,'  and  that 
Is  saying  a  great  deal.  'Lob  Lie-by-the-nro'  has  humor  and  pathos,  and 
teaches  what  is  right  without  making  children  think  they  are  reading  a 
Borraon." — Saturday  F.o  ^^^^ 

For  sale  by  all  "rKioV^llrr);,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
publisher,  A.  I*  BUHT.  52-53  Duane  Street,  New  York. 


A.  L.  BURT'S  BOOKS  FOE  YOUNG  PEOPLE.      11 
BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

By  Right  of  Conquest;  or,    With    Cortez  in    Mexico. 

By   G.    A.    HENTT.    With   illustrations  by  W.  S.  STACEY.    12rno,  cloth, 

olivine  edges,  price  $1.50. 

"  The  conquest  of  Mexico  by  a  small  band  of  resolute  men  under  the 
magnificent  leadership  of  Cortez  is  always  rightfully  ranked  among  the  most 
romantic  and  daring  exploits  in  history.  'By  Right  of  Conquest'  is  the 
neaiest  approach  to  a  perfectly  successful  historical  tale  that  Mr.  Henty 
has  yet  published."— Academy. 

For  Name  and  Fame;   or,  Through  Afghan  Passes. 

By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNE.    12mo,  cloth, 

ofivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Not  only  a  rousing  story,  replete  with  all  the  varied  forms  of  excite 
ment  of  a  campaign,  but,  what  is  still  more  useful,  an  account  of  a, 
territory  and  its  inhabitants  which  must  for  a  long  time  possess  a  supreme 
Interest  for  Englishmen,  as  being  the  key  to  our  Indian  Empire."— 
Glasgow  Herald. 

The  Bravest  of  the  Brave;  or,  With  Peterborough  in 

Spain.    By  G.  A.  HENTT.    With  illustrations   by  H.  M.    PAGET.    12mo 

cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Mr.  Henty  never  loses  sight  of  the  moral  purpose  of  his  work — to 
enforce  the  doctrine  of  courage  and  truth,  mercy  and  loving  kindness, 
as  Indispensable  to  the  making  of  a  gentleman.  Boys  will  rea  'The 
Bravest  of  the  Brave'  with  pleasure  and  profit;  of  that  we  are  quito 
sure." — Daily  Telegraph. 

The  Cat  of  Bubastes :  A  Story  of  Ancient  Egypt.    By 

G.  A.  HKNTY.     With  illustrations.    12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"The  story,  from  the  critical  moment  of  the  killing  of  the  sacred  cat 
to  the  perilous  exodus  into  Asia  with  which  it  closes,  is  very  skillfully 
constructed  and  full  of  exciting  adventures.  It  Is  admirably  illustrated." 
—Saturday  Review. 

Bonnie  Prince  Charlie :    A  Tale  of  Fontenoy  and  Cul- 

loden.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BRO^E.    12mo, 

cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Ronald,  the  hero,  is  very  like  the  hero  of  'Quentin  Durward.'  Tb3 
lad's  journey  across  France,  and  his  hairbreadth  escapes,  makes  up  at 
good  a  narrative  of  the  kind  as  we  have  ever  read.  For  freshness  of 
treatment  and  variety  of  incident  Mr.  Henty  has  surpassed  himself."— 
Spectator. 

With  Clive  in  India;  or,  The  Beginnings  of  an  Empire. 

By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNE.    12mo,  cloth, 

oflvine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"He  has  taken  a  period  of  Indian  history  of  the  most  vital  Impor 
tance,  and  he  has  embroidered  on  the  historical  facts  a  story  which  of 
Itself  is  deeply  Interesting.  Young  people  assuredly  will  be  delighted 
with  the  volume." — Scotsman. 

In  the  Reign  of  Terror:    The  Adventures  of  a  West 
minster  Boy.    By  G.  A.  HENTT.    With  illustrations  by  J.  SCHONBERG. 
12mo,  cloth,  oliviue  edges,  price  $1.00. 
"Harry  Saudwith,  the  Westminster  boy,  may  fairly    be    said    to    beat 

Mr.    Henty's   record.     His  adventures  will   delight   boys  by   the  audacity 

and  peril  they  depict.     The  story  Is  one  of  Mr.  Henty's  best." — Saturday 

Review. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  th» 
publisher,  A.  L,  BUET,  53-58  Duane  Street,  New  York. 


12       A.  L.  BURT'S  BOOKS  FOR  iOUNG  PEOPLE. 

BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

The  Lion  of  the  North:    A  Tale  of  Gustavus  Adolphus 

and  the  Ware  of  Religion.    By  Q.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  JOHN 
SCHONBERO.    12mo,  cloth,  oJivme  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"A  praiseworthy  attempt  to  interest  British  yonth  in  the  great  deeds 
of  the  Scotch  Brigade  in  "the  wars  of  Gustavus  Adolphus.  Mackey,  Hep- 
Iburn,  and  Munro  live  again  in  Mr.  Henty's  pages,  as  those  deserve  to 
.  live  whose  disciplined  bands  formed  really  the  germ  of  the  modern 
British  army." — Athenaeum. 

The  Dragon  and  the  Eaven;   or,   The   Days  of  King 

•     Alfred.    By  G.  A.  HKNTY.    With  illustrations  by  C.  J.  STANIUUJD.    12mo. 
cloth,  olivine  edge*,  price  $1.00. 

In  this  story  the  author  gives  an  account  of  the  fierce  struggle  be 
tween  Saxon  and  Dane  for  supremacy  in  England,  and  presents  a  vivid 
picture  of  the  misery  and  ruin  to  which  the  country  was  reduced  by  the 
ravages  of  the  sea-wolves.  The  story  is  treated  In  a  manner  most  at 
tractive  to  the  boywh  reader." — Athenaeum. 

The  Young  Carthaginian:    A  Story  of  the  Times  of 

Hannibal.    By  G.  A.  HKNTY.    With  illustrations  by  C.  J.  STANILAXD.  12mo, 

cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Well  constructed  and  vividly  told.  Prom  first  to  last  nothing  stays 
the  interest  of  the  narrative.  It  bears  us  along  as  on  a  stream  whose 
current  varies  in  direction,  but  never  loses  its  force." — Saturday  Review. 

In  Freedom's  Cause:    A  Story  of  Wallace  and  Bruce. 

By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNE.    12mo,  cloth, 

ofivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"It  Is  written  in  the  author's  best  style.  Pull  of  the  wildest  and  most 
remarkable  achievements.  It  is  a  talc  of  great  Interest,  which  a  bov.  once 
he  has  begun  it,  will  not  willingly  put  one  side." — The  Schoolmaster. 

With  Wolfe  in  Canada;  or,  The  Winning  of  a  Con 
tinent.  By  G.  A.  HENTT.  With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNE.  12mo, 
cloth,  olivme  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"A  model  of  what  a  boys'  story-book  should  be.  Mr.  Henty  has  a 
great  power  of  infusing  Into  the  dead  facts  of  history  new  life,  and  aa 
no  pains  are  spared  by  him  to  ensure  accuracy  In  historic  details,  his 
books  supply  useful  aids  to  study  as  well  as  amusement." — School  Guard 
ian. 

True  to  the  Old  Flag:    A  Tale  of  the  American  War  of 

Independence.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNE. 

12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Does  justice  to  the  pluck  and  determination  of  the  British  solklers 
during  the  unfortunate  struggle  against  American  emancipation.  The  son 
of  an  American  loyalist,  who  remains  true  to  our  flag,  falls  among  the 
hostile  red-skins  In  that  very  Huron  country  which  has  been  endeared 
to  us  by  the  exploits  of  Hawkeye  and  Chingachgook." — The  Times. 

A  Final  Reckoning:    A   Tale  of  Bush   Life  in  Aus 
tralia,    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  W.  B,  WOLLEN.    12mo, 
cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 
,     "All  boys  will  read  this  story  v.-itb  •  i-t'-'-'.'  Interest     The 

episodes  are  In  Mr.   Henty's  very  host  vein — graphic,  exciting,   realistic; 

and,  as  In  all  Mr.  Henty's  books,  tlio  tr>ndtnr;y  is  !o  the  formation  of  an 

honorable,    manly,    and   even   heroic   character." — Birmingham   Post. 

Far  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the  I 
publisher,  A.  L.  BUBT.  62-»8  Duan»  Street,  New  York. 


A.  L.  BURT'S  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE.        13 

BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

The  Lion  of  St.  Mark:    A  Tale  of  Venice  in  the  Four 
teenth  Century.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNE. 
12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 
"Every  boy  should  read  'The  Lion  of  St.  Mark.'     Mr.  Henty  has  never 

produced  a  story  more  delightful,  more  wholesome,  or  more  vivacious." — 

Saturday    Review. 

Facing  Death;  or,  The  Hero  of  the  Vaughan  Pit.    A 

Tale  oi  the  Coal  Mines.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON 

BROWNE.    12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"The  tale  is  well  written  and  well  Illustrated,  and  there  is  much 
reality  in  the  characters.  If  any  father,  clergyman,  or  schoolmaster 
Is  on  the  lookout  for  a  good  book  to  give  as  a  present  to  a  boy  who  ie 
worth  his  salt,  this  is  the  book  we  would  recommend." — Standard. 

Maori  and  Settler:      A  Story  of  the  New  Zealand  War. 

By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  ALFRED  PEARSE.    12mo,  clothi 

olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"In  the  adventures  among  the  Maoris,  there  are  many  breathless 
moments  in  which  the  odds  seem  hopelessly  against  the  party,  but  they 
succeed  In  establishing  themselves  happily  In  one  of  the  pleasant  New 
Zealand  valleys.  It  Is  brimful  of  adventure,  of  humorous  and  interesting 
conversation,  and  vivid  pictures  of  colonial  life." — Schoolmaster, 

One  of  the  28th:    A  Tale  of  Waterloo.    By  G.  A. 

HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  W.  H.  OVEREND.      12mo,    cloth,  olivine 

edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Written  with  Homeric  vigor  and  heroic  Inspiration.  It  is  graphic, 
picturesque,  and  dramatically  effective  .  .  .  shows  us  Mr.  Henty  at 
his  best  and  brightest.  The  adventures  will  hold  a  boy  enthralled  as  he 
rushes  through  them  with  breathless  Interest  'from  cover  to  cover.'  " — 
Observer. 

Orange  and  Green:    A  Tale  of  the  Boyne  and  Limer 
ick.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNE.     12mo, 
cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 
"The  narrative  is  free    from    the  vice    of    prejudice,  and    ripples    with 

life  as  if  what  is  being  described  were  really  passing  before  the  eye." — 

Belfast   News-Letter. 

Through  the  Fray:    A  Story  of   the   Luddite   Eiots. 

By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  H.  M.  PAGET.    12mo,  cloth,  olivine 

edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Mr.  Henty  inspires  a  love  and  admiration  for  straightforwardness,  truth 
and  courage.  This  is  one  of  the  best  of  the  many  good  books  Mr. 
Henty  has  produced,  and  deserves  to  be  classed  with  his  'Facing  Death.'  " 
— Standard. 

The  Young  Midshipman:  A  Story  of  the  Bombard 
ment  of  Alexandria.  With  illustrations.  12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges» 
price  $1.00. 

A  coast  fishing  lad,  by  an  act  of  heroism,  secures  the  interest  of 
a  shipowner,  who  places  him  as  an  apprenticp  on  board  one  of  his  ships. 
In  company  with  two  of  his  fellow-apprentices  he  is  left  behind,  at 
Alexandria,  in  the  hands  of  the  revolted  Egyptian  troops,  and  Is  present 
through  the  bombardment  and  the  scenes  of  riot  and  bloodshed  which 
accompanied  it. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
publisher,  A.  L.  BUKT,  5?-58  Duane  Street.  New  York. 


14        A.  L.  BURT'S  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE. 

BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

In    Times    of    Peril.    A  Tale  of    India.    By  G.  A. 

HENTY.    With  illustrations.    12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

The  hero  of  the  story  early  excites  our  admiration,  and  Is  altogether 
a  fine  character  such  as  boys  will  delight  in,  whilst  the  story  of  the 
campaign  is  very  graphically  told." — St.  James's  Gazette, 

The  Cornet'  of  Horse:    A  Tale  of  Marlborough's  Wars. 

By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations.    ICmo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1. 

"Mr.  Henty  not  only  concocts  a  thrilling  tale,  he  weaves  fact  and  fiction 
together  with  so  skillful  a  hend  that  the  reader  cannot  help  acquiring  a 
just  and  clear  view  of  that  fierce  und  terrible  struggle  known  as  the 
Crimean  War." — Athenaeum. 

The  Young  Franc-Tireurs :    Their  Adventures  in  the 

Franco-Prussian  War.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations.    12mo,  cloth, 

olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"A  capital  book  for  boys.  It  is  bright  and  readable,  and  full  of  good 
sense  and  manliness.  It  teaches  pluck  and  patience  in  adversity,  and 
shows  that  right  living  leads  to  success." — Observer. 

The  Young  Colonists:     A  Story  of  Life  and  War  in 

South  Africa.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations.    12mo,  cloth,  olivine 

edges,  price  Jl.OO. 

"No  boy  needs  to  have  any  story  of  Henty 's  recommended  to  him,  and 
parents  who  do  not  know  and  buy  them  for  their  boys  should  be  ashamed 
of  themselves.  Those  to  whom  he  is  yet  unknown  could  not  make  a 
better  beginning  than  with  this  book. 

The  Young  Buglers.     A  Tale  of  the  Peninsular  War. 

By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations.    12ino,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1. 

"Mr.  Henty  is  a  giant  among  boys*  writers,  and  his  books  are  suffi 
ciently  popular  to  be  sure  of  a  welcome  anywhere.  In  stirring  interest, 
this  is  quite  up  to  the  level  of  Mr.  Henty's  former  historical  tales." — 
Saturday  Review. 

Sturdy  and  Strong ;  or,  How  George  Andrews  Made  his 

Way.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations.    12mo.  cloth,  olivine  edges, 

price  $1.00. 

"The  history  of  a  hero  of  everyday  life,  whose  love  of  tr  th,  clothing  of 
modesty,  and  innate  pluck,  carry  him,  naturally,  from  poverty  to  afflu 
ence.  George  Andrews  is  an  example  of  character  with  nothing  to  cavil 
at,  and  stands  as  a  good  instance  of  chivalry  in  domestic  life." — The 
Empire. 

Among  Malay  Pirates.    A    Story  of   Adventure   and 

Peril.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations.    ISmo,  cloth,  olivine  edges, 

price  $1.00. 

"Incident  succeeds  incident,  and  adventure  la  piled  npon  adventure, 
and  at  th«  end  the  reader,  be  he  boy  or  man,  will  have  experienced 
breathless  enjoyment  in  a  romantic  story  that  must  have  taught  him 
much  at  its  close." — Army  and  Navy  Gazette. 

Jack  Archer.     A    Tale   of   the    Crimea.     BY  G.  A. 

HENTY.    "With  illustrations.    12nio,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Mr.  Henty  not  only  concocts  a  thrilling  tale,  he  weaves  fact  and  fiction 
together  with  so  skillful  a  hand  that  the  reader  cannot  help  acquiring  a 
Just  and  clear  view  of  that  fierce  and  terrible  struggle." — Athenaeum. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
publisher.  A*  X,.  BUKT.  52-58  Duane  Street.  New  York. 


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